


prima facie

by extraordinarilyprettyteeth



Series: the nineties organized crime au absolutely no one asked for [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, Developing Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn, and shisui who is really bad at being bad, anko the absolute BADASS, but this au has been burning a hole in my brain for YEARS, everyone is painfully awkward and it hurt me to write, feat. landlines neon windbreakers and a healthy amount of distrust in the state, fuck danzo lives 2k18, good cop obito, mentions of substance use, starring lawyer itachi, the nineties organized crime au absolutely no one asked for but i wrote anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-08-23 10:19:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraordinarilyprettyteeth/pseuds/extraordinarilyprettyteeth
Summary: Shisui is a completely Okay and Functional Adult, thanks, and he Has His Life Together, except for the crime part and the hot-third-cousin part and the likely genetic complete-lack-of-self-preservation part. But honestly, most of his existence is really put together. He even washes his darks and lights separately on the appropriate temperatures (no he doesn't).





	1. the night in question

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to everyone I've tortured with my drafts, stupid questions, and generally incoherent yelling on the matter! This is For You.

“I'm not getting paid enough for this,” Shisui mutters into the bottom of his coffee cup. It is half past ten in New York City, and the night is dark and full of fucking stupidity.

“Ah, lighten up,” Obito says cheerfully. “At least you're not doing paperwork.” He proceeds to take another three sugar packets from the little dish on their table and dumps them into his own coffee. “I have piles and piles downtown if you're really hankering for the smell of your own desperation and self-loathing.”

Shisui raises his eyes heavenward. “There is no god. I'm alone among idiots and the frighteningly smart.” He drains his mug and centers it in front of him; he looks down into it for nothing in particular. He isn't sure what he was expecting to find, because tea leaves are kind of passe this year and he's never been all that superstitious anyway.

Obito sighs. “He can't be that bad. I met the kid when he was, what, six? Real mature for his age,” he says thoughtfully. “Like someone read him Revelations as a bedtime story.”

Shisui snorts; it's the closest he's come to laughing in probably the eternity plus six weeks he's been on this job. “I wouldn't put it past Fugaku.”

“Oh yeah, for sure.” Obito nods in agreement. “Rivers of blood and monsters consuming infants, that's definitely his style.” He sips his coffee, and then reaches for the sugar again.

“How are your teeth not falling out of your head yet?” Shisui watches with distaste as Obito adds yet another sugar packet.

Obito shrugs in response. “Don't know. Figure if me getting blown up didn't do it they must be in there pretty well.” When he grins, it's lopsided; the corner of his mouth is always drawn down by a years-old laceration. It hurts to look at.

Shisui raises an eyebrow. “At least you have great dental, right?”

“Yeah, I gotta look my best for when I get a cat out of a tree and they put my picture in the paper.”

For probably the fifth time that hour, Shisui reminds himself that he _needs_ to associate with Obito so he doesn't land himself in jail for lack of compliance, and that it actually is okay to have someone to talk to besides the old lady who does her wash at the laundromat during the same hour on Tuesdays as he does.

The waitress sidles by, pouring more coffee from a battered carafe. She doesn't ask first whether or not they want more, which is refreshing; she just smiles knowingly at the floor and moves on.

“So,” Obito drawls, drawing the word out. “What's up?” He sips his coffee, which is likely past the point of saturation.

“I just—” Shisui is at a loss. He's never had a problem putting people at ease, but Itachi is _different_. “I have no idea how to deal with him.” He sighs. “I'm supposed to 'keep an eye on him', Fugaku's orders, right?” Shisui mimes air quotes. “How the fuck am I supposed to _do_ that when I feel like I'm perpetually putting my foot in my mouth?” On good days, the two of them will speak, albeit with some trepidation; on the not so great ones, where Shisui says the wrong thing, or makes the mistake of casual touch, it's like living with an apparition that apologizes far too often and eats all his Twizzlers.

Mid-sip, Obito chokes a little. “Wow, flexible,” he cackles. “Impressive. Do we get a demonstration?”

Shisui kicks him under the table and slouches back into the plush faux leather of the booth. “You are the last one I should have asked for interpersonal advice,” he mumbles.

“Why, with my stellar track record of healthy relationships and fulfilling friendships, I'm surprised you didn't ask me sooner.” Obito rolls his shoulders, grunting, and turns halfway in his seat, the fabric squeaking, to look out the wide glass windows at the darkened street.

Shisui notes that he still habitually sits with the scarred side of his body facing out into the night. A desire to appear normal to the people inside the building with them, maybe, or an intimidation tactic for any potential tails, although that really isn't likely, not with his reputation; Shisui doesn't pretend to understand. “How do you even 'keep an eye' on someone who could probably perform neural surgery if he had an hour to look over a textbook?”

Obito rolls his eye.

Two minutes pass, then five. Shisui can hear the clang of dishes from far off, people calling back and forth to one another across the kitchen. He wonders if there's a discreet way to check his watch, and then decides not to risk it.

“You know,” Obito says, at the seven minute mark, “Maybe just keep a job a job for this one.” He turns back to Shisui, grinning mischievously. It stretches the scars around his mouth. “Or are you too invested for that?”

Shisui rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Obito. Now you imagine sharing a shoebox with a mute Wednesday Addams who also practices law. I cannot do _anything_ I usually do.”

Obito drains the rest of his coffee and goes right back to smirking. “Good,” he says happily. “Our little cousin might end up doing wonders for your health.”

“Please don't call him little, it makes me feel creepy,” Shisui says plaintively. He picks up the paper napkin and tears off a tiny piece, balls it up, drops it on the table. “This is... This is a new and exciting line of work that I have little experience with.” He looks up at Obito and continues to methodically shred his napkin.

Tilting his mug slightly towards himself, Obito peers into its depths; clearly, something doesn't please him, because he adds another packet of sugar and stirs vigorously. “I know,” he says. “I get it. Protecting people is a little different from killing them.” He taps a finger on the side of his mug. “Again, it will be good for you. You need it. Does it blow, as a job?” He flicks a hand spasmodically at nothing in particular. “Of course it does. Pay isn't as good—” here, he pauses to narrow his eye at Shisui “—if they're even paying you, because it's Fugaku's oldest son, and you know, filial piety and duty and all that bullshit. You're allowed to ask for help, you know?” He pauses for a moment, clearly lost in thought. “You know why they've got you on him?”

“An inkling,” Shisui admits. “You and I both know I'd be off doing less savory things otherwise.” He continues to rip the napkin apart.

Obito grunts in acknowledgement. “Well, you know, don't be a stranger.” His gaze drifts down to his hands, then to Shisui's, then back up. Shisui wonders if he can actually see the gunpowder burns and minute cuts, or maybe it's just all the blood that's sunken in that he's looking at. “I mean, we can be friendly in public. You've technically never been indicted, so we can all go drinking.” He follows this up with a wry smile.

“Thanks,” Shisui says, rolling his eyes. “Thanks a ton, Obito.” But he means it, and surprises even himself.

“No need,” Obito says, pushing himself to his feet. “Let me know if you need anything.” He leaves a ten dollar bill on the table.

Shisui gets up and follows him out the door, leaving behind the stale warmth of the diner; the street is fairly empty, for New York, the sidewalks clear enough that there's multiple clear escape routes, plenty of room to maneuver if ambushed. Shisui is suddenly very, very aware that the sum total of his armaments are a rather sad box cutter and a bowie knife. He tries to remember precisely what he'd been thinking, but in the dark, the idea of coming armed to a meet with a cop (okay, maybe his super weird cousin who just happens to be a cop) seems much better than the resultant 'going home without a weapon'.

Obito is already walking, heading towards the bus shelter.

“Hey.” Shisui catches his forearm, the one on his good side. He's not stupid enough to go for Obito's right, although he's almost completely certain that he has an additional set of eyes in the back of his head and at least one concealed weapon.

“Yeah.” Obito grabs right back, pulling Shisui with him. “Keep walking, keep with me,” he says under his breath. “It isn't unheard of for them to come out this far.”

Shisui takes a deep breath. “Danzo,” he says shortly. “His name was in their case files, I just got a quick look.” Even Itachi has to go to the bathroom at some point; even then, he'd emerged with narrowed eyes roving the room, as if he could sense the elevated heartbeat from Shisui's mad dash back to his customary sprawl across the rather battered loveseat. “If it doesn't, you know, violate any oaths or anything, see if you can figure anything out.” Shisui swallows, hard.

They're moving quickly now, dipping through the yellow pools of light the streetlamps pour onto the ground. “I can do that,” Obito says quietly. “Get home. Call when you do.”

It's 11:09, two minutes until the 6945 back to Secaucus Junction and then home. Shisui sprints up the damp concrete steps to the outbound platform. A horn blares, and the Amtrak express to Boston cruises through on the other line; in the distance and closing, he can see the approaching light of his train getting closer. The noise is deafening, the clatters and pneumatic hissing filling every ounce of space. In the slices of light between express cars, he thinks he sees a figure run up the stairs, towards the ticket machines. He fumbles for the knife, where it's strapped to his side beneath his clothes, running a thumb over it for reassurance.

It's the longest thirty seconds of his life, that space after the express whips through and before the 11:11 pulls into the station. There might be something—or someone—standing back in the sheltered overhang near the brick wall of the indoor waiting rooms, although all of those are locked at this time of night. Shisui is really, really reluctant to get close enough to tell, or—worse, maybe—to give away that he knows he's being followed. He can feel his palms sweating, despite mid-September's half-hearted chill; unwilling to be cowed, he leans his weight to one leg, shoves his hands in his pockets, and tries to look bored. It's rather difficult, when he keeps seeing that someone move, ever so slightly, out of the corner of his eye.

It is the most agonizing forty minutes home he's ever experienced. Really, it's just ten from Manhattan, but Shisui is paranoid enough to stay on until the stop _after_ his, Union, in order to loop around and hop on the next inbound train back home. Union's platform is wonderfully bereft of potentially threatening entities or persons, and when he gets off at _his_ stop he could kiss the ground, except this is New Jersey and that would be asking for trench mouth, mesothelioma, and maybe a venereal disease or two. _Definitely_ cold sores, he thinks. Shisui's loath to even say home, if he's honest with himself, but it's better than nothing. He checks his watch. “Damn.” It's a little past midnight, and while Obito will probably give him until half past midnight to call, he'd rather do it sooner than later, because otherwise the fucker will show up here and he _cannot_ handle the both of them in the same room right now.

Darting down the steps from the Secaucus station, he aims for the longer, but better lit route home. He lengthens his strides, rounding a left, another left, then a right, that puts him on a side street of smallish apartment buildings. He brushes a cursory hand over the knife again as he walks, and honestly he probably looks really fucking stupid, like an Olympic powerwalker or something.

He comes to the end of the first block, and turns into an alley halfway down the second. This is the way he always takes home, another misdirection his paranoia deems necessary. Shisui comes out between a laundromat and a Texas wiener joint; the wiener joint is closed, but the laundromat is twenty four hours, and there's always the smell of Suavitel and baking soda detergent.

Two houses down from the laundromat is his apartment: once a sprawling, three-story Victorian, the old house's new lease on life is as subdivided units. Shisui pulls his keys out of his pocket and bounds up the wooden stairs creeping along the side of the house to the door set into the second story hallway; he lets himself in as quietly as possible, and takes the stairs up to the third two at a time. As he's unlocking the next door, set at the top of the stair, he raps twice, just so Itachi knows he's coming in.

Shisui pushes the door in with his knee, a little too forcefully. It bangs into the wall. “Shit.” So much for being quiet. “Hi there,” he whispers, with exaggerated panache. “I tried to be quiet,” Shisui adds, in a normal tone this time, closing the door behind him.

Itachi looks up from the kitchen table, which, in all honesty, is half in the kitchenette, half in the living room. “It's fine,” he says, although Shisui really doesn't know either way whether or not it's fine.

“Oh, okay.” Shisui bites the inside of his cheek, chews it a little. He cannot look at Itachi too long; his hair is in a _bun_ , for chrissake. There's pen on his lip and papers spread over the entire surface of the table, and at least two empty coffee mugs claiming what real estate isn't occupied by paper.

Shisui blinks several times, as if to perhaps dispel the illusion. “I figured you'd be asleep,” he adds lamely. He also figured it was not possible to look that attractive with pen face and big dark circles under his eyes, but you know, Shisui thinks, he's honestly done way weirder shit, so maybe a tired, distracted lawyer kink isn't all that out there.

“Well, I'm not.” Itachi's eye might have twitched, but it also might have been a trick of the light. “How was your...” He pauses, looking Shisui up and down. “Your night out?”

“Oh, it was great,” Shisui says. “Obito is a treat.” He meanders over to the kitchenette, opening two or three different cabinets until he comes up with two glasses that vaguely match, and then pulls a half-empty bottle of cola out of the refrigerator. “You want?” he asks, holding it up briefly before pouring his own glass.

Itachi wrinkles his nose ever so slightly. “What else are you putting in it?” he asks with trepidation.

“In yours, nothing.” Shisui looks over for a moment, serious. “I wouldn't.” He is painfully aware that Itachi is somewhat acquainted with what he has done for a living up until this point, but he isn't an all-around terrible person, contrary to popular belief, or what he definitely imagines is popular belief.

Itachi pushes his glasses up a little and nods.

“Here,” Shisui adds, putting the cola and empty glass on the table. He is considerate enough not to put them on top of any of the expense reports, either, although he probably _should_ at this point, because Itachi was in the same exact position when he left to meet Obito three hours ago. “You can pour yours.”

Itachi looks up from his papers again; there's just the faintest hint of surprise in his face. “Thank you.”

Shisui shrugs. “Don't thank me, just figured you prefer to do it yourself.” He taps the side of his head. “Smart,” he adds, before opening the pathetic excuse he has for a freezer and attempting to extricate the vodka without taking anything else (frozen peas, a half eaten tub of peanut butter ice cream that might be a year old by now, a freezer-burned chicken he's never quite gotten around to figuring out how to cook, et cetera) with it.

Itachi just nods this time, and pours half a glass of soda before pushing the remainder across the table.  
It's probably something more psychological than anything else, Shisui thinks, as he pours just a little of the alcohol at the bottom of the glass. It's not a necessity any more, or at least that's what he tells himself; it's more a routine, something left over from when it was a habit. He figures it's like how ex-smokers chew gum, or eat candy, or get tracheotomies. Or go back to smoking. “How long have you been looking at this stuff?” Shisui asks, careful to keep his tone casual.

Itachi scrapes at the grain of the wood with a fingernail. “Since I came home from work,” he says quietly. “I might have to stop in tomorrow, if I'm in the city anyway.”

Shisui thinks back on the train ride, the individual standing on the inbound platform, a silhouette flashing in the gaps between train cars. “I don't know if that's going to work out tomorrow,” he says. He grabs a rubber-banded bag of chips off the top of the refrigerator and settles himself in at the table, careful not to put his glass on any papers.

“Gotta grocery shop.” He notes that Itachi watches his hands like a hawk anyway, all the way up until the point where he finishes pouring himself soda and puts the cap back on.

“Interesting,” is the only reply Itachi deigns to give; he's back to looking at his paperwork, making notes in the margins and occasionally referring back to a rather intimidating spreadsheet.

Shisui looks back down at his hands, and busies himself with opening the chips. The way Itachi taps the pen against his mouth while otherwise occupied is distracting, to say the least, and Shisui is fairly certain he's destined to be a creep forever. “So, what are you working on?”

“Reviewing financial records of expenditures for the New York police department's office administration,” Itachi says, and there's definitely a hint of disparagement in his tone. “That was also more than one standard drink, Shisui.”

Shisui is almost _sure_ that isn't what Itachi is doing, but he's also a little too exhausted to argue the point. He'll find out eventually, he thinks, and pretends the churning in his gut is from too much coffee earlier. “Was not,” he replies, mostly for the hell of it. Any consecutive words he can coax out of Itachi feel like a small victory. “And that sounds pretty glamorous.”

“Mind-numbing, more like.” Itachi rubs at an eye and puts his pen down, and he looks rather more tired than usual. “Are you going to bed?”

Mid-chew, Shisui looks up from his very thorough study of the back of the chip bag. He makes an effort to swallow before opening his mouth. “Not yet. You should, though,” he says, before nearly choking himself on a particularly sharp fragment of chip.

“I have to finish this first.” Itachi looks over at him, gaze sharp. “Why?”

Shisui doesn't say anything at first, decides instead to drink at least a third of the contents of his glass before answering, because god only knows what's happening right now.

“Why what?” he asks in response.

“Why the sudden interest?” Itachi's gaze flickers from him to the glass in his hands; he turns it in a circle with two fingers, rotating it almost exactly a quarter each time. He is still meticulously careful about keeping it away from his paperwork.

Shisui shrugs. “No reason, really.” He drinks again, but doesn't look away. “Just seemed like you've been up late a lot is all.” And more tired, his mind adds. In a way, Shisui feels terrible, and a little panicky—he knows he's getting a little over-invested, as this is merely a 'make sure no bodily harm comes to my son' type deal, not 'please be his nanny and make sure he eats his vegetables and actually just eats in general' one. Of course, his protective instincts—which have helpfully lain dormant all these years—have chosen now to surface, when he's been shoehorned in with probably the least approachable person in the tri-state. “You should sleep more.” And, of course, he manages to come off fairly consistently as an overbearing pain each and every time.

Itachi just continues to stares at him, suspicious. “Fine, then,” he says, after several moments of thick silence. “I'll be up for a while, though.” He pauses and picks up a highlighter, striping several lines of text before continuing. “If you want to sleep in the bedroom tonight, and I can sleep out here. I don't want to keep you up.”

Shisui can feel his eyebrows creeping further and further up his hairline. “No, I'm good right here,” he says, before tipping back a decent amount of his drink. No way in fucking hell that is happening, not even the slightest chance, Shisui thinks. The bedroom and the tiny hall closet are arguably the two safest places in the apartment—no windows, one point of entry, and neither door frame is visible upon first entrance.

“Fine,” Itachi repeats, and there's the tiniest bit of an edge to his tone. “It'll be boring,” he adds. “I'm not very interesting.”

Shisui would beg to differ, but he just shrugs instead. “Fine by me. I have nowhere to be.”

Itachi grunts in acknowledgment, and goes back to reading intently and bouncing his pen off his chin. Thankfully it's the cap this time.

He looks so, _so_ good, Shisui's brain helpfully points out, as there seems to be a distinct segment that ignores all logic he attempts to impart on it. In a different world, he could reach out and maybe rub away that bit of pen that's bothering him so much to look at; he wonders if it irks him because it's there, or because he isn't allowed to touch—can't bring himself to, more like. He isn't sure how long he's been staring, and he doesn't care to think about it, but in another life he could tease a little more, touch a little more, convince Itachi to sleep more and frown less, eat more than once a day and maybe sometimes make him laugh—

Itachi coughs, and it's not really the welcome back to his real life he'd like, but it's something. “Sorry,” he adds, voice muffled by his sleeve.

Shisui tucks one leg up onto the chair, tilts his head to the side slightly in a futile effort to focus. It doesn't work, although it's more likely because his eyes are readjusting to reality. “Are you getting sick?”

“No,” Itachi says, although his voice is a little rough. “Just a cold, if anything.” He shifts around in his seat, making to stand.

Shisui makes a mental note to buy some sort of ibuprofen tomorrow, because he's fairly sure there's nothing in his bathroom cabinet aside from shaving cream and expired NyQuil. “You all right?” he asks, a little suspicious. Maybe soup too, or something like that. He isn't entirely sure what the proper protocol is here.

Yellow light from the cracked ceiling lamp pours over the table; Itachi's hands move like pale ghosts, shuffling papers, tossing out sticky notes, gathering mugs. There's a ring of dried coffee underneath one, and Shisui watches his cousin's face. Watches his lips quirk, brow furrow, eyes flick back and forth over the table and its contents. He stands, finally, taking all of two steps to the sink.

Shisui watches him move now, every motion contained and efficient. The water running drowns out the painful sound of Itachi's breathing, the creak of the floorboards under his feet, the buzzing of the bulb overhead, and all Shisui can think is, holy shit, he's real. He rubs at an eye with one hand, collects the things he regrets with the other.  
In his peripheral, Shisui can see Itachi putting the coffee cups on a ratty old towel next to his godawful excuse for a kitchen sink, can see him dry his hands; absently, he wonders if he's done something terrible and this is a punishment, because he's never hated the taunt of domesticity more than he has in this moment—

There's a bang, a clattering noise. Itachi has dropped a mug into the drain, one hand poised in mid-air as if to intercept a strike, or someone's line of sight. “Shisui?” Itachi asks, and he actually sounds a little unnerved, which is unlike him, so he scrambles up too, rushing to close the three feet between them.

Shisui goes for Itachi, cursing himself for not going around the block a couple times before going inside the apartments; Itachi tries to lunge around Shisui, for the haphazard sheaf of papers next to his seat—documents, Shisui realizes belatedly, that never should have seen the outside of the precinct.

“No,” Shisui snaps, voice a hoarse whisper. “Stay calm, okay?” He swats Itachi's hands away, plants himself between the tiny peninsula and his cousin; absently, Shisui registers a not-inconsiderable amount of fear, because Itachi has that cornered animal look, and the knives in the butcher block on the counter are shamefully dull because Shisui is absolute shit at being an adult but they're still knives, and of course Fugaku would train his kids as miniature warriors, or at least Shisui would if it were _his_ fucking progeny—

Itachi only serves to look deeply offended. He shoves into Shisui's chest with his forearms, elbows him in the gut, and then tries to sidestep. “Get _off_ me—” The amount of force is, admittedly, surprising.

The fucking _nerve_ , Shisui thinks, and grabs him by the wrists, and pulling him close enough that it'll hurt to try to move too much. “I get my hands off you when you stop moving,” he says, keeping his voice level. Clearly he isn't letting go anytime soon, because Itachi tries to wrench away from him yet again, and god, sometimes he can't believe that someone so smart can be so dumb. “Stay right here. Do not move,” Shisui repeats. “Lights on means they can see in just fine.” He stares at Itachi; he always forgets how tall he is, that they're really just within centimeters of each other. He never expects his eyes to be so—so close. “What did you see?” he asks, more quietly.

“Down on the lawn, the alley behind the houses,” Itachi says tersely; he sounds a little stressed, but nowhere near the levels of freak-out Shisui's seen from other people. He hates to admit it, but he's impressed. And maybe a little infatuated, who's to say? “Middling height, middling build, nothing useful.” He's frustrated—ever the pragmatist, Shisui thinks. “I just didn't think to look up, and when I did, they were just there—”

“It's fine,” Shisui says; he tries to make his voice soothing, which is a little more difficult when he's afraid to let on the degree of exactly how nervous he is, which is significant. “It's fine. It was probably the weird old guy who lives on the next block.” God fuck shit, Shisui is not going to sleep tonight, he's going to sit awake by his front door with a knife and a garrote, waiting for a footstep on the stair, or the creak of a window latch giving way. “We're okay, all right?” He modulates his voice carefully; for the first time, it strikes him that Itachi is very intelligent, but quite possibly not all that emotionally regulated, once you get past the seemingly endless void of 'I'm an Uchiha and I'm emotionally challenged'. Shisui is the first to admit he isn't exactly an open book, but goddamn, he at least watched enough Sesame Street as a toddler to understand what a feeling is.

Itachi strains against him one more time, fruitlessly; although they are close enough in height, Shisui has twenty five pounds and ten years' experience in the field as advantages. “I would feel considerably more 'okay' if you'd let me defend myself,” he snaps. “I fully understand the situation, at least let me take some liability.”  
Fighting back an eye roll, Shisui allows his grip to slacken; he does not, however, let go entirely. He holds on just enough to make a point, like a child with a lightning bug.

“Look,” he says quietly, formally. It hurts to do. “My job is to protect you. That's it. You do what you have to do for the family, and I just make sure you have the... The latitude for whatever that happens to be.”

Itachi swallows; Shisui tries very, very hard to avoid looking at the muscles of his throat, dutifully ignores the way Itachi is chewing on the inside of his cheek. It's all very hypnotic, unfortunately, in the same way that looking at a kaleidoscope is hypnotic—if you stare for too long, nothing else makes sense, and the afterimages last for what seems like hours. “So,” Itachi says shortly. “So you do your job, and I do mine.” He jerks his body, the sharp movement a denouement. “I'm going to go get my case files now, and continue reviewing them, _elsewhere_ ,” he announces, acerbic.

This time, Shisui lets him go, and watches with consternation as Itachi slams his arm into the table with the loss of his grip. His cousin doesn't flinch in the slightest, just continues to glare murderously up at him. Shisui thinks he might be in love.

“Have it your way,” Shisui says coolly, taking a carefully measured step back; he sidles towards the kitchen sink himself. “Maybe consider icing that,” he adds, leaning to look out the window.

There's a snort from behind him, and the sound of rustling papers.

Shisui prays for patience, because the lack of self-preservation in this family over even the smallest things is so fucking _severe_ he's surprised the entire Uchiha clan isn't extinct by now. He peers out the window, at the narrow swath of concrete between their building and the one across the way; it's a small stretch, with not many places to hide, unless a) it really was the old guy from a couple houses down, which is possible, but really not very probable, and more of a comforting fiction for his rather difficult cousin, or b) whomever followed him—potentially from the city—is hiding in a fucking trash can. Maybe somewhere else, he thinks ruefully, but not in Jersey.

He puts one hand to the glass and contemplates. If Shisui's kitchen window were open (impossible—the window does not open, much to his chagrin), he could likely jump to the building behind theirs. He'd probably need a running start, but he could definitely make it. At least, he tells himself that.

Shisui turns back to the inside of the apartment, surveying the room carefully. He checks the other window, makes sure it's locked, makes sure the white thread tucked under the sash hasn't moved. It's stupid, he knows, and likely not at all useful, but it makes him feel better, thanks very much. He sighs, then paces back to the door; the clunk as the deadbolt slides home is reassuring, and then he slides the chain into place too and can breathe a little easier.

He glances over at the bedroom door, which is only slightly ajar. Before he can think better of it, he's crossing the tiny den and poking his head in. “I just locked up,” he says, careful to keep his tone neutral.

Itachi is arranged carefully at the foot of the bed, making tedious little notes in a steno pad. “How reassuring.” He looks up briefly, raises an eyebrow, and it's fucking devastating, and Shisui is almost entirely sure he's going to propose when this is over—if it's ever over, he realizes belatedly—because his train of thought is almost entirely limited to 1) holy shit, where did this guy even come from, and then the horrible 2) maybe it was all the inbreeding.

“Would it make you feel better if I stay where you can see me?” he asks, and this time there's a forced mildness that hints at something far more scathing below the surface.

Shisui sucks in a breath. “All righty, then.” He scans the room once again, noting everything in its place—made bed, clock radio on the tiny nightstand, just enough space left over for a small, struggling bookshelf. Itachi looks frighteningly at home, and Shisui is suddenly a little nauseous. “I'm gonna call Obito. Have fun.” He pauses, still half-in the doorway. “And yeah, stay right there,” he says, grinning. “You look comfortable.”

Without waiting for another response, Shisui pops back out again, leaving the door open just a fraction, just enough so he has line-of-sight from the phone mounted on the wall by the kitchen door. That phone was another deciding factor for this apartment—if Shisui stands with his back to the wall, he can see, simultaneously, both windows, the entrance, and the bedroom door, albeit in peripheral. He tucks the abomination of a receiver under his chin, punches in Obito's number of the week, and listens to the monotonous trill of the dial tone, then the ringing.

After what he's certain is a geological age, Obito picks up. “Yeah?” he asks. He sounds as if he's chewing. Honestly, Shisui wouldn't even be surprised.

“It's me,” he says. “I'm home.” He sighs, glancing back at the kitchen window again. “All settled in.”

“Good, that's good. Anything fun happening over there?” Obito asks. “Nothing here, boring as fuck-all, got home at like eleven twenty, eleven thirty, and then I had to fucking _cook_ ,” he yells, and the last two words are much more muted, as if he's pulled the receiver away from his mouth.

“You cook,” Shisui says flatly, because never in his life has he heard a more terrible idea.

In the background, Shisui can hear faint yelling in return; clearly, Obito's ire isn't directed at him, but good god did he pick a shitty day for it. Shisui counts to five, slowly, while making his very best effort to control his breathing. He starts counting again, and is at three when Obito finally responds. “Sorry,” he says, breathless. “I don't, that's the problem. You were saying?”

“Nothing interesting,” Shisui says. “Thought I saw someone we knew, but turned out to be nothing.”

“You sure?” Obito asks. Trepidation makes itself clear in his voice.

Shisui rubs his eyes. “Pretty sure,” he says. “I thought I saw someone at the station. Didn't think it was anything, but Itachi says he saw something outside a while ago.”

Obito is clearly irritated with the lack of specifics, because he says, “Something like a person, or something like an animal, or something like the naked guy with the hat from Times Square—”

“Shit, a person, alright?”

“How long ago?”

“I don't know, twenty minutes now?” Shisui says. Honest to god, it feels like someone's taken sandpaper to his eyeballs. Maybe it was the long, long day, or maybe the liquor, but he's more tired than he's been in a while. “A little while ago.”

Obito's exasperated sigh crackles across the line. “Well, the good news is that if they wanted you dead, you'd already be down for the count,” he says, in a tone that's clearly meant to be reassuring.

“Gee, thanks,” Shisui drawls. “I'm not gonna tell him that.”

“How's our little protege doing, anyhow?” Obito asks. “Adjusting okay?”

Shisui snorts. “Adjusting to what? New Jersey?” He rubs the back of his neck. “You never fucking adjust to New Jersey.”

“Autonomy? The full, vibrant spectrum of human emotion?”

“Come on, Obito, go easy.” He leans to the left a little; he can see that Itachi hasn't moved much, except to retrieve a pad of colored sticky notes, the freak, and to turn and glare at Shisui.

“I'm fine,” Itachi calls from the other room. If looks could kill, Shisui thinks. If looks could kill.

“He says he's fine,” Shisui repeats in a monotone. “He's doing extra work on a case when he isn't being paid to do it, so I don't know how true that is, but he says he's fine.”

“Well, fine,” Obito says. “Let him. Try to get some sleep, or don't. I doubt you'll be able  
to—”

And that's when the call cuts off. There's nothing on the other end of the line, not even ominous breathing. Shisui is a little miffed, because apparently he isn't even worth B-horror intimidation tactics. There's a very faint roaring noise, like wind or running water, and that's all. Given the circumstances, however, it is scary as fuck, and Shisui's hand is shaking a little as he reaches up to hit three to conference Obito in.

The white noise continues for another thirty seconds, before resolving itself into something resembling a melodic pattern, something that is almost words, almost intelligible. The fact that it could be anything at all is a little more unnerving, in all honesty.

Shisui stands there, stock still, praying to whatever questionable gods exist that Obito is recording, because if anyone is paranoid enough to keep a tape recorder by their telephone, it's him. After another ten seconds of Shisui's personal episode of the Twilight Zone, a familiar crescendo of beeps plays, and the robotic telephone voice says, “We're sorry, but your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hit—” and Shisui hits three again to end the conference.

Now it's just the sound of scrabbling on the other end—most likely Obito losing his shit.

“What the fuck was that.” Shisui thinks he sounds very, very calm, considering the circumstances. At this point, maybe someone sneaking in and killing him would be a blessing; at least he wouldn't have to worry about rent for next month.

“I don't know,” Obito says, distracted. There's a dull thud in the background, and a series of rapid bangs. “I'll work on it, call you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Shisui says faintly. “Yeah, sure. I'll—I'll get some sleep. Or not.”

“Alright, have fun with the golden child,” Obito snickers.

“Fuck off,” he says, without too much rancor, and then hangs up.


	2. heart to heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great response!! I mentioned it on my [tumblr](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) as well, but I plan to update once a week until further notice, as I already have a decent portion of the first third of this written.

Shisui sits in the doorway to his bedroom, back to one side of the threshold and feet propped up against the other. His eyes drift to his alarm clock and then back to the viscous shadows sliding incrementally up the wall. It's been a waiting game.

Itachi hasn't really moved, either. Aside from a grunt of acknowledgment when Shisui had settled into his new haunt ninety minutes previously, he has remained in the exact same position—hunched at the foot of the bed, alternately reading and scrawling. Shisui's concern for his cousin's chiropractic health has never been greater. And his sleep hygiene. Honestly, he can definitely think of some ways to help with _both_ , and you know what, he's almost definitely already going to whatever hell actually exists, so might as well be for something _enjoyable_ instead of just _killing people—_

“Why don't you get some sleep?” Shisui suggests. The words rush out of their own accord, tumbling over one another, so it comes out sounding more like 'whydon you gessom sleep?'.

Itachi turns to look at him, blinking blearily. “I'm fine,” he says, voice rough. “I'm working.”

Sighing, Shisui folds his arms over his chest. “You're being ridiculous.”

“I'm not the one that needs sleep,” Itachi mutters pointedly, and slaps a bright yellow sticky note onto the page with a little more force than necessary.

Shisui can't help it—he fights back a yawn, forces his eyes open wider. “Yeah, yeah. I'm sure that you're mostly caffeine and nutritional deficiencies,” he says.

Itachi says nothing in reply, and simply goes back to perusing his piles and piles of paperwork. The only interruptions are the occasional rustle as a page turns, or the rasp of the pen's metal nib across paper. Shisui watches Itachi start to bite a thumbnail, then stop and start chewing the inside of his cheek; it must be a habit, because he goes to put the same nail to his mouth twice before finally tucking the offending hand into the crook of his knee. More paper sounds, soft and comforting. An occasional deeper breath that _could_ have been a yawn, but isn't, because Itachi isn't about to miss out on a single opportunity to prove his point.

It isn't unpleasant, though—not in the slightest. Shisui has always hated protection detail, but this... This _isn't_ terrible. He's never seen himself as one for domesticity, but this is surprisingly _okay_. Granted, Itachi is probably in the middle of figuring out how best to compromise an internal investigation into the NYPD and Shisui has considered at least four ways to lethally incapacitate a potential intruder in the last quarter of an hour, but this is still the closest to Norman Rockwell he's ever gotten.

Cracking his neck, Shisui leans over to glance at the front door, then settles back in. His eyes drift to Itachi, then to the clock, then back to Itachi.

“It's almost two thirty in the morning,” he offers lamely.

Itachi just stares at him. “And?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Shisui rolls his eyes. “Never mind.” He figures it is just his lot in life to be burdened with the two least sociable extensions of the Uchiha family as day-to-day acquaintances, although not entirely by choice.

It is two thirty, then two forty five, then three. Shisui picks at a hangnail, at a thread fraying off his jeans, at carpet pile, and then at a scab on the back of his hand. He honestly can't remember how he got it, and for some reason that bothers him. He resolves himself to mentally cataloguing the last two days in order to figure it out when he's jolted from his reverie.

Itachi is saying something, settling papers back into their manila envelope.

Shisui can only stare at him, somewhat stupefied by his lack of sleep. “Come again?” he says, voice thick.

“Can I ask you something?” he repeats. He isn't looking at Shisui, instead shuffling around with his office supplies.

“Uh, yeah.” Shisui really, really wants to go smoke right now. He's honestly forgetting why he quit in the first place, except for maybe the dying of cancer part, and the actually hating it part, but when everyone else in his line of work has died before thirty five anyway, what's the real point? “Go for it,” he adds.

Itachi clears his throat. He seems pained, like there's something he's swallowed whole that's lodged in his windpipe. Shisui finds himself wondering if there's an emotional version of the Heimlich. “Why'd you agree to this?” he asks. He continues to look down at his hands.

Shisui doesn't blame him. They're very nice hands, really. “In what way?” he challenges in return. “Do you mean working with you, or like, the apartment? Or living in Jersey? Honestly, I wonder why I agreed to any of them,” he says, trying to force some levity.

“No,” Itachi says. His face twists a little, as if the words hurt to force out. “I mean, why'd you agree to this? It doesn't strike you as at all _odd?”_ Finally— _finally—_ he turns to look at Shisui, and it's probably the most aged he's ever seen Itachi look. “Doesn't it seem a little suspicious?”

Something icy leeches into Shisui's bones. “What do you mean,” he says, voice flat. It isn't a question, because this is dangerous ground. Yes, he's one of Fugaku's favored ones, but even the family dog gets it when the famine hits. He shifts into a cross legged position, facing Itachi now. “Do you mean, one, why did I agree to working for the family, specifically? Or two, with you, specifically?” His brow furrows. “Neither one is really an easy answer.”

Something steely flicks its silver belly briefly in the weight of Itachi's gaze. “I know,” he says. “I asked to ask, you know.”

“Well.” Shisui rubs his eyes with one hand. “I—shit, I don't really know,” he says. Sleep tugs at his eyelashes. “Why do you wanna know?”

Itachi shrugs. The motion seems foreign to him, to his nature. He isn't a shrugging kind of person, Shisui thinks, but drinks in the movements anyway. His shoulders are narrow without being feminine, still characterized by strong lines beneath a black shirt, the peak of a sharp collarbone. Shisui is partial to the long sleeves; it leaves more to the imagination, and really, his has been nothing if not overactive as of late. “Perspective,” he says, as if that's all there is to it, and for a split second Shisui has the very unsettling precognition that he's being played.

“Alright, then.” Shisui rubs his eyes with one hand; honestly, he probably _is_ being manipulated, and it's all the more insulting that whoever is pulling the strings knows he knows, and likewise, knows he knows that _they_ know, and eventually he gives up on thinking about it. That's an interesting train of thought for sometime when it isn't disgusting o'clock in the morning. “I mean, I didn't really have a choice on either front.”

Itachi's eyes flick up to his, for the first time in hours. It's shocking. “I guess that's universal, then,” he says, with a sense of finality.

Another five minutes pass, and they sit in silence. Shisui thinks about the name he gave to Obito, about the man behind the name; he wonders how many skins he has compared to Itachi—how many identities, how many versions of himself. Copy of a copy of a copy of a man. He's pretty sure if you dive deep enough, psychopomp becomes reality, and there probably _are_ some things that Freud was right about _._

There are some days he loses track of what side he's on, when the ridiculous thing is there are barely sides any more, just differing densities of people he vaguely cares about. Some he gives more of a shit about than others—mostly Obito, his late father, his younger cousins, simply by virtue of their innocence. And now _this_ , whatever it is.

Itachi breaks the silence, yet again. Shisui thinks he might develop tachycardia out of shock. “I'm going to sleep, then.” He stares at Shisui, as if expecting him to pick up on something.

“Good plan?” he says tentatively.

“You should sleep too,” he adds pointedly.

“You know, I feel like both of us sleeping at the same time after seeing some strange-ass man outside is asking for trouble,” Shisui says, fighting the urge to laugh, or slap him, or pin him to the bed.

Itachi snorts derisively. “How deeply are you _really_ going to sleep?” He slides a briefcase out from under the bed and flips it open. “I'm just going to ask that you don't actually bring that knife into bed with you.” He dumps all the papers in and snaps it shut again; carefully, he runs a thumb across the numbered dials, locking it. “I hate weapons.”

“I'll take the futon, thanks,” Shisui mutters.

“No, you won't,” Itachi says, matter of fact.

“Like fuck I won't.”

“You won't,” Itachi says again. “Say someone _does_ come looking.” He sits up straighter; there's something iron-like holding him upright, a tomato plant to a wooden stake. Shisui valiantly attempts to ignore the way a thin piece of hair has fallen out of its constraints and dangles temptingly by his neck. “It's obvious from whatever escapade you had on the way out of New York that you've done something worth hiding, correct?”

It's as if Itachi becomes someone else. This is his cousin the lawyer, Princeton's most promising, voted most likely to make partner before twenty-six, valedictorian of his class, the one who makes it count whenever he _does_ decide to talk. “Yeah,” Shisui says slowly. He can read between the lines, all right, and it's as if there's a tiny scrawl across the page that says 'you fucked up, badly' staring back at him.

Itachi tips his head back, as if breathing in, because he knows he's smarter and that Shisui won't argue, and _fuck,_ he probably knows literally every single thought Shisui has had about him since day one. “Good. Me too.” He stands then, slowly, and slides the briefcase underneath one of the pillows. “Pick a side.”

“So what, we just go to sleep and let them assume—” He coughs. He can absolutely feel his face burning, and honestly, thinking something in an abstract sphere and actually discussing it are two different things. “Alright then,” he chokes out, and desperately wishes for maybe a gaping hole in the floor, or potentially an alien abduction.

“We just let them assume that there's something _else_ we're hiding,” Itachi says calmly, as if he isn't talking about the entire criminal underworld—or potentially the less-than-squeaky facets of the law enforcement—knowing, allegedly, that he's fucking his cousin. “Out of the city, away from my immediate family, away from _your_ superiors, purported or otherwise—”

“—would really only lead them to one other possible conclusion,” Shisui finishes. “Got it. I'm sure the reputation the family has will help that along nicely.” He wonders if there's a way to get the ground to open up and swallow him whole, because that is looking like a more and more viable option with every second that passes. “And you're okay with that?”

Itachi shrugs, picking his sweatshirt up off the floor. “It is what it is.” He tugs it over his head. “It's convincing, at the very least. Easiest explanation.” He's really very good at glossing over the fact that his parents are second cousins, at _least._

“Great,” Shisui says, fighting to keep the edge out of his voice. “That's reassuring.” He rubs the back of his neck and sighs, pushing himself to his feet. He puts one hand on the doorframe, as if to tether himself, as if he needs a designated spot to put his hands. _Christ_ , it's like being fifteen again, and it is _decidedly_ just as unpleasant as the first time around. Shisui looks pointedly at the worn gray carpeting and forces himself to ignore the sounds of Itachi moving around the small room, forces himself to fight the urge to watch.

Shisui ducks out of the room instead, choosing to check the front door one more time. He doesn't _need_ to, and honestly, if someone really wanted to get in, they absolutely could, but it's nice. It's an easy out, he thinks, and then hates himself a little for it, because he's supposed to be fucking _protecting_ this kid, not—not whatever it is he's doing. He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Uchihas,” Shisui mutters, toeing his shoes off. He digs in his jacket pocket for his keys before taking it off and throwing it over the back of the loveseat, and thinks he probably should have gone the Obito route and cut all ties with a 'fuck you' and a middle finger. “Fucking _Uchihas_.” He also has no clue what the etiquette is here. Can he strip down to boxers and a t-shirt? Sweatpants? A three-piece suit? Chastity belt? Shisui grunts again in frustration, rubbing his hand across his eyes.

And, of course, he immediately regrets not gouging them out when given the chance, because good fucking jesus, Itachi is standing in the doorway, and from now on Shisui is burning all of his own clothing because the sight of Itachi wearing _his_ clothes is going to cause him to immediately cease all higher cognitive functions or go into cardiac arrest.

Itachi doesn't say anything, either—just stands there in a fucking _hideous_ high school varsity sweatshirt and makes it look _good._ Alternatively, it might look terrible, and Shisui is just fucking insane by now, or maybe his brain has just been conditioned to respond positively to any form of non-violent human interaction, or maybe that last time he hit his head was one time too many. Who knows, really?

“Hurry up.” Itachi doesn't wait for an answer, either, just turns and heads back to bed.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm coming,” Shisui says, crossing the room at a measured pace. An _artificially_ measured pace, but still, give a guy some credit. “Didn't think you'd want me to wear shoes in bed. I mean, I can if you want, everyone's into _some_ kind of weird shit, but most people prefer them off.”

He looks over at Itachi and immediately wants to bite his tongue off. Itachi is perched on the side of the bed, wearing an expression uncannily like he'd just been fed half a lemon.

“Jesus, not really,” Shisui adds quickly. “I mean, most people don't wear shoes, but like—I'm not trying to—” He breaks off entirely, and wonders yet again whether or not he could just maybe evaporate on the spot.

“I know,” Itachi rushes out. “I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm going to go to sleep.” There's the faintest hint of red to his face—just enough to notice. It's somewhat reassuring to know that he indeed has blood vessels and circulation and, you know, normal human things, and not just seemingly perfect poise wrapped up in an overly composed demeanor.

Shisui stares for a moment, marveling at the amazing dichotomy that 1) Itachi is capable of blushing, and 2) _he_ was the one who got him to blush. “Other side,” Shisui says, and lays his knives carefully on the nightstand before divesting himself of pants.

Itachi turns to look at him briefly, eyes narrowed. “Pardon me.” It isn't a question, or even polite; Shisui assumes it translates roughly to 'what the fuck', but apparently Itachi was raised right and doesn't swear or, you know, show perceptible emotion.

“Oh, come on,” Shisui says irritably. It is three thirty in the fucking morning, he has to get up by eight, and he is just _so tired_. “I'm not fucking sleeping in jeans. I'm wearing boxers.” Shisui rolls his eyes. “Get on the inside, closer to the wall,” he instructs.

Apparently _some_ facet of this logic makes itself known to Itachi, because he doesn't protest. Shisui catches another glimpse of what's definitely poorly-muted embarrassment on his face before Itachi promptly slides under the covers and curls up facing the wall.

Sighing, Shisui hits the light and flops onto his own measly half of the bed, on top of the comforter, and stares up at the ceiling. The last traces of alcohol are making their way out of his system, and he's never mourned the loss more. After several long moments of silence, he says, “So it's fine. It's like a sleepover.” He realizes, with a sinking sensation, that sleepovers were probably not part of Itachi's childhood in the slightest respect, and briefly considers a monastery and a vow of silence or something like that. Apparently his brain is out to get him, and for someone usually _good_ with people, it's rather disheartening.

Itachi grunts in acknowledgment, and not a particularly happy acknowledgment, either. He shifts slightly, and the mattress gives. It is _incredibly_ distracting.

Shisui continues to look resolutely at the water stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like a topographical diagram of Pangaea. Not moving is becoming an art form, he reflects, and thinks maybe this is for the best, because he's never actually going to fall asleep now. Between the sheer awkwardness and the chill—because who would properly insulate a third floor apartment? No one, apparently—he'll be awake, for sure. Shisui looks over at the red glow of his alarm clock. Three forty five. He lets another couple moments pass before saying, “This was your idea.”

Itachi shifts slightly, probably to lay on his back, because his voice is nowhere near as faint as before. Shisui wouldn't know. Shisui is minding his own business staring at Pangaea. “I know,” he says, voice loud in the soft quiet. “It makes sense.”

And it does, unfortunately. “Yeah, it does,” Shisui agrees.

Another stretch of silence, and then Itachi says quietly, “You can get under the covers. If you're cold, I mean.” He clears his throat. “I'm fine with it.”

“Oh, boy, I get to use my _own bed?”_ Shisui snipes back, but it's something. It's definitely a concession, especially from Itachi, who would probably die if he walked into the wrong room at the Louvre and got an eyeful of naked _anything_. “How did you make it through college?” Shisui asks, as he slides under the covers.

“I got up at five in the morning to shower,” Itachi says, because of _course_ he would do that. “There weren't ever many people around.”

Shisui wrinkles his nose. “Roommates? Didn't you share a dorm room?” He keeps asking questions to distract from the fact that his bed is warm, which is really really weird, mostly because he never brings people back here, he just goes home with them. Itachi being—being _unseemly_ and wearing his sweatshirt and blushing and sleeping in his bed and _hello,_ yes, this is too surreal for the nominal amount of sleep he's gotten over the past couple of days.

“Yes,” Itachi says shortly. “I stayed out of it as much as possible.” There's a slightly sour undertone to his voice; clearly, he must have disapproved of whatever had been going on. Shisui assumes it was probably something fun, like sex, or drinking, or potentially having hobbies outside of cramming for the next exam. Maybe people not wearing pants.

Shisui has a sudden, unfortunately vivid memory of his last varsity swim meet as a senior in high school, and decides that he and Itachi would not have gotten along had they met elsewhere. God, he probably would've had a drink thrown in his face if he was lucky.

“Well, uh.” He's slightly lost for words. “I'm sorry about that.” He shifts around, settling onto his side. He's looking at Itachi's profile now, keeping a healthy foot and a half of space between them. Itachi says nothing in reply, and Shisui lets the silence swing back and forth, a pendulum. He's precariously near the edge of the bed, but honestly, he'd rather die a slow and painful death than make this any more agonizingly awkward than it is.

It's closer to four now, and Shisui is starting to drift off when suddenly Itachi is in his face, gently bumping his shoulder.

“Whazzat,” Shisui says eloquently, jolting upright; he's blinking blearily, scrambling to get his feet under him—

“Can you put on pants?” Itachi says with a straight face, propped up on an elbow.

Raising both eyebrows, Shisui immediately lays back down, buries his face in his pillow, and ignores his terrible, horrible, no-good cousin's excuse for a smirk. “I was almost asleep,” he says, although it's quite muffled.

“So that's a no, then?”   
Shisui really hates that Itachi has chosen now to try out what must be his equivalent of a terrible, sadistic joke. “Just go to sleep,” he says, without any real heat.

Itachi just settles back in, staring beatifically up at the ceiling. “Good night,” he says, serene.

Shisui just grunts in response.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love your commentary!! Feel free to yell @ me and ask anything you want, either here or on [tumblr](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/).


	3. saturday: I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are now three days of the week named saturday: or, I have no self control and split one day into ten billion parts. someone explain the concept of organization to me, I'm begging you

Shisui wakes up a total of one (1) time overnight, which is probably something of a record, all things considered. It's around six-thirty, when the woman who lives two stories below them takes her dog out. The front door to the house itself is loud and heavy, and the _slam_ as it falls shut behind her seems to reverberate through the entire building.

Of course, Shisui is bolt upright in seconds, attempting to force his breathing to regain something vaguely reminiscent of a normal pattern. He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing; he's damp with sweat, which is just peachy, but altogether not unusual.

Rain drums steadily on the roof, and the external sounds of life fade into the background, mesh into a comforting blanket of radio static. That must have been the other thing, he reasons. Most people, rain is a comfort—it's never been all that soothing for him, though. Nothing good ever happens when it rains.

Shisui forces himself up, and checks the window latches and the door again; he unlocks the deadbolt and re-locks it, just to be sure, before stopping at the kitchen window and peering out. Nothing, yet again. There's just a wet, arguably gross alley between two buildings, and a slightly damp, arguably gross person looking out at it.

He meanders back out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. Flipping the toilet lid shut, he stands on top and carefully shifts a ceiling panel to the side a little. He gropes around for a solid, panic-inducing fifteen seconds before his hand alights on the pack of cigarettes he _knew_ he hid from himself, likely while intoxicated. He really, really does _not_ like his past self at times (almost all the time, but who's keeping track?).

Pack in hand, he half-steps, half-falls off the toilet lid and shuts the bathroom door. Shisui cracks the window open by about six inches, and cold air rushes in. He lights up and settles into a semi-seated position on the lid of the toilet, craning his neck a little to see the alleyway from a different angle. He exhales carefully, out the window. It's early yet, and there's no one out there save for his dumb neighbor with her dumb purple umbrella and her dumb dog coming back from their very, very early walk.

He ashes the cigarette and scowls; he already has a headache, and is already flipping through the codex of reasons as to why he quit. Shisui takes one more drag before he gives up, stubbing it out on the wet brick of the building right outside the window; he tucks the other half back into his pack, because still, what a waste. He's about to put it back into the ceiling when he decides he doesn't really care any more, and just leaves them on the same battered wooden rack he puts towels on.

Sighing, Shisui pads back into the bedroom and settles himself back into bed. It's early yet, and he can probably get another hour or two of uninterrupted sleep before Itachi is up. He flips the pillow over and rolls onto his back, and indulges in blessed, peaceful silence for all of thirty seconds.

“What was that?”

Shisui nearly shits himself again, for the second time in a fifteen-minute span, which probably meets a yearly quota or something. In the back of his mind, he resolves to ask Obito the next time he sees him, because if anyone knows anything about living in a constant state of unfounded shock and utter turmoil, it's him. “Could you maybe give a little preamble, sometimes?” he asks, looking over at his bedfellow, who is, wow, _in his personal space._ Vaguely, he wonders if they socialize law students, or just keep them in isolation until they are to be unleashed on the unsuspecting populace at commencement. “Like, I don't know, 'good morning', or even 'oh, you're up?' are both customary.”

Itachi is curled on his side, facing Shisui this time. “Oh, you're up?” he repeats in a monotone. His mouth twitches. It's _just_ slight enough that Shisui could consider it a trick of the light (or his one-track, clearly infatuated brain), and not consider the wonderful alternate reality where he can wake up to weird half-smiles every day.

“Unfortunately.” Shisui yawns. “I'm trying very hard not to be.”

“What was that?” Itachi repeats. “I'm not stupid, Shisui.”

Shisui shuts his eyes, tries to ignore Itachi's persistent stare boring into the side of his face. “I know you're not stupid,” he says, and then tries to suppress another yawn. “You're very smart. Smart enough to put me to shame.” He excuses it by telling himself he's still mostly asleep, although a very small and very vocal part of him wants, for some inane reason, to make sure someone tells Itachi he's worthwhile. “The smartest.” It's becoming more and more clear ol' Fugaku never got around to it, which—which really _doesn't_ surprise Shisui, honestly. The man isn't exactly a paradigm of fatherly love. “How about we talk about it in the morning?”

Itachi sniffs. “Fine.” He rolls back over. After five minutes or so comes the muffled question; it sounds as if Itachi has wrapped his face in the blankets. “Are you smoking again?”

Shisui snorts. “Smoking what, exactly?” He hears Itachi's pointed sigh and fights back a grin.

“Never mind.”

It must be a very interesting wall, Shisui thinks, to keep Itachi's attention like that. He cards a hand through his hair, making a face. He's definitely going to have to pick the knots out of it. Should have bought conditioner when he had the chance, no matter how much Obito is going to make fun of him for smelling like 'a seductive rainforest'. He drifts off again composing a grocery list and an itinerary for the next two days, pointedly ignoring the other warm body in his bed, and maybe imagining some kind of parallel universe where this is a reality instead of a casual convenience.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell into the void with me on [tumblr](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) .


	4. saturday: interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't have anything to say for myself, so I'll just see myself out now

Shisui is stirred to consciousness by a warm weight at his side, and what's definitely an elbow pushing into his spleen. He shifts a little, tilting his head, and gets a mouthful of hair. “Hm,” he says eloquently, picking hair out of his mouth. “Whassat.” He blinks once, twice; he can still hear the rain outside, and there's no hint of sunshine coming through the blinds. Shisui notes that one or two of the slats are broken, and resolves to add a hardware store to his list of places to go for today, no matter how unlikely such an idea coming to fruition is.

“Good morning,” Itachi mumbles; his voice is muffled by Shisui's shoulder. Shisui can feel his lips move through the fabric of his shirt, and he kind of wants to die, or disappear, or maybe go rub one out with his forehead pressed to the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding in his ears because holy shit, who knew a dick could wake up so fast—

“Yeah, good morning,” Shisui says quickly, and by god, he's going to skewer this before it even tries to become an issue. “I'm gonna get up and shower, okay? I'm really gross.” Shisui can't help but look as Itachi yawns and shifts towards Shisui's retreating body heat.

He seems so much happier half-asleep, although Shisui could swear he's already developing worry lines between his eyebrows. “You won't,” Itachi says, voice dragged down by exhaustion. “Stay here.”

“Uh, no, sorry,” Shisui stutters out, slightly confused. “I—trust me, it's better for everyone if I just get up and give you free reign here.” It sounds stupid, and Shisui knows it, but really. _Really_.

Itachi fists a hand in his shirt, tugging him back down. “Just stay here,” he says again, as normally as he would in any other conversation, as if they weren't in bed, close as lovers, close enough that they might as well be— “It's okay,” he says, and then repeats, “Stay here. You're warm.”

How, precisely, Shisui wonders, is he supposed to argue with such stellar logic? This is not at all like Itachi, so he assumes that maybe the drinking and the not sleeping have probably caught up with him and are contributing to his general perception of reality, and lets it go. He sighs, letting Itachi tug him back down into the warmth of the blankets. Burying his face in the crook of Shisui's neck, Itachi settles in. His nose is cold against Shisui's pulse point. Impulsively, he reaches for one of Itachi's hands.

“Do you make your own body heat?” he asks, before he can regret anything. “You're like a reptile.” Shisui really, really regrets eschewing pants to sleep, and resolves henceforth (if he makes it out alive, for god's sake) to wear actual clothes to bed. Also, like a reptile? Why does anyone ever let him _talk_ , he wonders, with no small amount of annoyance.

Itachi laughs, and his breath huffs over Shisui's neck. Shisui again contemplates dying a sudden, inexplicable death, because he really, really shouldn't be turned on from someone _breathing_ on him. “A common misconception,” he mumbles.

Shisui looks down at his cousin's head, pillowed on his shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded, and he's striking like this, dark hair and dark eyes that look so, so good against the white of Shisui's tee shirt. Without thinking about it all too much, he twines his fingers with Itachi's and lets their hands rest on his chest. “Well, maybe I'll get one of those lamp things,” Shisui says with mock-seriousness. “You know, like for pet turtles.” His lips are inches from Itachi's temple, and Shisui actually wants to die, because this has to be a test of some kind. He imagines Fugaku popping out of the bathroom with a 9mm and fights down a full-on fight or flight reaction.

There's actually a flicker of a smile on Itachi's face for a moment, though, although his eyes stay closed. “Sounds nice,” he says. “Sounds really nice.” But he does brush his thumb over Shisui's wrist, and oddly enough, the resulting jolt in his stomach is enough to shock him.

He should _not_ be stupidly turned on right now from _hand holding,_ of all things, but this is his life, so of course he is. “Yeah,” Shisui says, eloquently. He wonders how discreetly he can tilt his hips away, or maybe just stop existing below the belt. Or boxers, as fate may have it, thanks to his own stupid fucking decisions. “Uh, could I ask a question?”

Itachi moves his head a little. Shisui can practically feel the eyelashes across the overheated skin of his neck. “I don't see why not,” Itachi says slowly, and it's torturous, the way Shisui gets sensation from every word, even just in warm breath across his collarbone.

“Do you—Are you okay?” Shisui chokes out, because this behavior is almost alarming, honestly, and oddly enough some small, sensible part of Shisui's brain is insisting he make sure this isn't some kind of elaborate setup before he—before he _does_ anything, for fuck's sake.

Shisui watches as Itachi's forehead wrinkles. It's cute. It absolutely should _not_ be cute. “What do you mean?” he asks, and the worst part is he sounds genuinely curious.

Shisui sucks in air through his teeth, and pushes himself up onto his side. “I don't know,” he says slowly, fighting back a smile. He props a hand under his cheek and looks down at Itachi and feels a little like his heart might stop, partially from affection and partially because all the blood has been relocated elsewhere. “You're suddenly very... Very affectionate.”

Itachi's lips twitch into something that might be a grimace or might be a half-smile. “You're observant,” he says, and no, it's definitely a smile.

“Shut up,” Shisui says, but there's no heat behind it. “You're too smart for your own good, you know that?” He moves slowly, slowly enough that Itachi will still have time to stop him if he wants, although god he really, really hopes not; carefully, he pushes hair away from Itachi's face, one of the perpetually errant pieces in the front.

Fingers trail along his shoulder and down his bicep. “I know,” Itachi says back, and he's smirking, looking more familiar by the second.

Leaning forward a little, Shisui can feel his heartbeat. It's quick, fast, like a bird's, and it occurs to Shisui that this might be entirely new ground for him. “Is this okay with you?” he asks, low, an intimate conversation in a crowded room. It feels as if they're hiding from themselves. “I'm—” Shisui huffs out a heavy breath, and leans his forehead on his arm. “I don't want you to think I'm a creep or anything, I want to be sure,” he asks, and god jesus he can feel himself flushing.

“I'm fine,” Itachi says back. His hand fists in Shisui's shirt, tugging him more gently this time. “I'm _fine_ ,” he repeats, emphatic, and he's seeking out Shisui's gaze and holding it in a way that makes him uncomfortable, like he's already naked or something. As if to punctuate his words, Itachi lets go and instead rests his palm against Shisui's chest, trailing up and then down, and then of course up again, because nothing can ever be easy.

It feels like a punch to the gut, whipping the air out of his lungs and getting him shocked and exhilarated and a little nauseous, all in one go. Shisui shifts just slightly. “One more time. You're sure?” His eyes are searching, flying back and forth; he notes that there's a stray eyelash about an inch underneath Itachi's left eye. Shisui ducks his head to nose at it, and ends up with his mouth by Itachi's ear. “We can always stop, whenever. You tell me,” he says quietly. He knows enough about life to know that they might not be in love, but that doesn't have to make it bad. It never has to be bad, he thinks resolutely, if only to himself. Maybe if only to reassure himself. It never has to be bad.

Itachi nods. “Okay,” he says, and it's the first time outside of a life-or-death situation Shisui has heard him sound strained.

“Good,” Shisui says, and noses down to Itachi's ear. He kisses the juncture where Itachi's jaw meets his neck, and the sudden tension in his frame is enticing. “Relax, okay?” Shisui nips at the shell of his ear, and he can hear Itachi suck in a breath. _Good,_ Shisui thinks again, and kisses open-mouthed down his neck.

One of Itachi's hands comes up to fist in his hair, and the other splays out across his back. The muscles in his neck move as he tenses, swallows, and Shisui kisses the hollow of his throat, under his chin, the spot where there's a tiny birthmark on the right side of his neck, all in an effort to pin them down, keep him there.

Shisui pulls back for a moment, leaving them inches apart. “Okay so far?” He leans back onto one hand, tracing Itachi's cheek with the other. “I mean, I can do this all day if you want—”

_“No,”_ Itachi growls, and pulls Shisui back on top of him. His heart is still so quick, drumming against Shisui's sternum like he's just run a marathon.

Shisui allows himself a smile. “As you wish,” he says, and leans back down. He bites at the side of Itachi's neck, laving his tongue over it; Shisui's done a lot he isn't proud of, but he's never half-assed any of it, and this won't be any exception.

Itachi's breath hitches again, and his hands are scrabbling for purchase in Shisui's curls. He's been silent so far, except for his increasingly ragged breathing, which is something Shisui intends to remedy as quickly as possible. He pulls back, kisses back up his neck to the point of his chin, and glances at his handiwork.

The bruise itself isn't too terrible; it's there just enough to give him a thrill, an _I did this_ , an _I put this here_ , but it's the half-lidded gaze he gets that does him in, that lazy look with parted lips, and he realizes. “I haven't actually kissed you yet,” Shisui says, voice rough.

Itachi pushes himself into a sitting postion, and tugs off the stupid, stupid sweatshirt from last night. “Well,” he says, as he pulls it over his head, “Maybe you should get on that.” There are little hairs standing up from the static electricity, and there's some lint on the black shirt he's wearing underneath, but it couldn't be better.

Shisui snorts. “I intend to,” he replies, grinning.

Itachi shoots him a decidedly annoyed look, although it's ruined by how big his eyes are and the purpling splotch on his neck and how _messy_ he seems compared to his usual self _._ “Stop talking.”

Shrugging, Shisui gently pushes him back down. “I can do that,” he says, and they're chest to chest, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. He tucks another loose strand of hair behind Itachi's ear. “First kiss?” he asks, and then grimaces. “No, wait, don't tell me, I'll disappoint you,” he says quickly.

“Does it matter?” Itachi asks, scowling, and then pulls Shisui down himself, slotting their mouths together.

He's.. he's enthusiastic, Shisui will definitely give him that. Shisui tries to slow it down, coach him into a more sedate rhythm; instead of something fast and sharp and desperate, something slower, quieter, more mundane. It takes a minute to get past the awkwardness, the noses bumping, the heart thumping in his ears, but when they get there, it's good, it's easy, as natural as taking a breath. He nips Itachi's lower lip, and feels hands tighten in the back of his shirt, and something lurches in his chest. Taking the opportunity, Shisui sucks at it, drawing fingers across Itachi's neck, down his chest, across the bruise he just left; then, he pulls away a little.

Itachi looks at him, accusatory. “You're very good at this,” he says.

“You're a very fast learner,” Shisui replies, and god, this was a terrible idea, because now he's actually doing this after weeks of thinking about it, and it's better than he imagined it would be, and he's almost sure his dick is about to fall off. He reaches down, grabs Itachi's wrist. “I mean it,” he says, looking him in the eye, and kisses the pad of each finger.

“You're terrible,” Itachi mumbles, but he watches, pupils huge.

Shisui huffs out a laugh. “What, do you want your glasses?”

“I—” Itachi, for the first time, doesn't have the words to say what he wants; he just stares up at Shisui, looking more than a little put-upon. “No?”

“It's okay,” Shisui murmurs. “Just teasing. Supposed to be fun.” He slips one finger into his mouth, and then two, and swirls his tongue around them; he lets go, lets Itachi drag them past his lips and push back in, because the look on his face is just that satisfying. He hates it, usually—hates fingers in his mouth, but this is different enough, because Itachi's lips part slightly as he watches, like he's beyond fascinated, and god Shisui loves looking at him every which way, in every mood, every day, even as Itachi is dragging a hand through his hair, tugging a little harder than he might've liked otherwise.

“Terrible,” Shisui repeats back to him. “I've been called worse.” Shisui kisses him again, in earnest this time. He kisses with more teeth than most people would like, more saliva, more sharpness to mitigate the overwhelming tenderness. It's always served to keep him in the moment instead of drifting off somewhere.

Shisui strokes an open palm down his neck, and then down his side; he slides a hand underneath Itachi's shirt, mapping warm skin with a hungry touch. “I won't take anything else off, okay?” He punctuates it with another kiss, this time to the corner of his mouth. “Not unless you want me to.” This he breathes against the side of Itachi's neck.

Itachi is breathing a little heavily, and looking slightly debauched; Shisui is overall pleased with his work. “Didn't listen when I told you to put on pants,” he scoffs. “Stubborn.”

He ducks his head against the side of Itachi's neck. Of course Itachi would have noticed by now; although he's fairly inexperienced, Shisui is almost absolutely sure he knows what an erection is. Then again, maybe not, but now doesn't seem to be the time to ask about whether or not he ever got The Talk, and then Shisui begins to imagine Fugaku giving The Talk and immediately shuts down that train of thought. “Of course I am,” Shisui says, next to Itachi's ear. He can feel Itachi shudder, and it's more satisfying than being touched himself. “You're sensitive, though.” He bites at Itachi's earlobe, at the patch of skin under his ear and latches on again.

Itachi bites off a moan, teeth sinking into his lip. Shisui can feel the muscles in his abdomen tense and then relax, tense and relax again. He splays his fingers and presses down a little, as if to keep him in place. “I really, really like it,” Shisui says, and nips the spot one more time. “I could never get bored watching you.”

Itachi still has the wherewithal to glare at him, although it lacks the usual heat. He nods, carding fingers through Shisui's hair.

Shisui pauses. “You're okay? This is okay still?”

“Yes, okay,” he breathes quietly.

Shisui rests his forehead against Itachi's temple. “Can I touch you?” he asks quickly, before he can regret it and potentially suffocate himself with a bedsheet in a decidedly non-erotic way. “You don't—just me touching you. That's it.” He can't really help himself—his hand slides down just a little; his little finger tucks itself beneath the waistband of Itachi's sweatpants, of its own accord. He can feel a sharp hipbone pronounce itself underneath his fingers, and he traces its curvature. _Gorgeous_ , he thinks, but it isn't really the body he means.

There is another distinct change to Itachi's breathing, and Shisui absolutely loves it, loves the process of slowly ruining him, and then feels a little pang of guilt at the thought. “Okay,” Itachi repeats. He twitches a little under Shisui's touch, and his hand tightens in Shisui's hair, but he doesn't flinch away. “Yeah, okay.”

Shisui kisses him again, quickly—just a dry press of lips this time. He doesn't close his eyes, doesn't look away. “I'll make it good for you,” he says, voice low. “I promise.” And he says it in earnest, which is the most frightening part—he's never really liked the emotional parts of sex, never understood the softer side of it, save for comfort. It's always been either fun or devastating or a band-aid, but this is something else entirely—this is terrifying, because he _means it._

Itachi swallows, and his lips part slightly—they're a little swollen, a little more red than usual. “I trust you,” he says, very quietly.

“Okay, sweetheart, okay,” Shisui murmurs, and then Itachi is the one who leans over and kisses him, and Shisui has to really fight down the urge to pin him down right then and there. Instead, he traces back and forth, working his hand lower. “How are you?” he asks, against Itachi's mouth. “Okay? Good?”

“Tease,” Itachi breathes, and kisses him again.

Shisui contemplates that maybe it's just to shut him up, and thinks to himself, _well then_. He slips his hand into Itachi's sweatpants and skims lightly over his cock, which is definitely interested; his own twitches in sympathy when Itachi moans into his mouth. Shisui pulls back again, grinning more than is likely appropriate. Watching Itachi's face intently, he drags his hand up and down loosely, just the once.

Itachi jerks a little, and there's some emotion that flashes across his face that Shisui can't quite parse.

Shisui reclaims his hand, if only momentarily. “Hang on,” he says, and then looks at Itachi apologetically. “Hopefully you don't think it's gross, but—” He wets his palm, works it up in his mouth and spits, wishing all the while he'd thought this through a little better, but it is what it is. “It'll be better.”

Itachi just stares at him and nods resolutely.

“You don't have to overachieve in this too,” Shisui says quietly, settling his chin on Itachi's shoulder. He slings a leg over one of Itachi's, and lets his hands roam again. “It's all about what you _want_ to do, okay?” He tugs the waistband of Itachi's sweats down just enough to free his length, and takes him in hand. Shisui nuzzles into the side of Itachi's neck as he begins to stroke in earnest, listening carefully.

Itachi's breathing hitches, and there's tiny aborted sounds, little keens. Shisui turns his attention back to Itachi's neck, suckling yet another bite into existence, this time higher up, nearer to his ear. Itachi's shoulders jerk upwards a little, and he tilts his head to the side; Shisui pulls away, pushing up onto one elbow to watch. He slows down his strokes, swiping over the head of his cock with his thumb every so often. Itachi reaches for him, grasping onto Shisui's shoulder.

Honestly, Shisui could ignore his own throbbing dick until the end of time if he gets to see this for the rest of his life. Itachi's head is turned towards him, but his eyes are screwed shut, and there's a flush rising high on his cheeks, bleeding down onto his neck. Wisps of dark hair coming out of the neat braid he'd plaited it into the night before, and Shisui wishes he'd undone it earlier.

Shisui ducks his head to kiss the tip of Itachi's chin; almost immediately, Itachi opens his eyes, parts his lips. It's as if he expects Shisui to kiss him again, and who is he to say no to that? He works his free hand into Itachi's braid, tugging his head back just a little. “You're so good,” he says, against Itachi's mouth. “So good for me.” He pulls at Itachi's lower lip with his teeth before kissing him in earnest, tongue mapping the inside of his mouth.

“Beautiful like this,” Shisui says roughly. “All the time, but like this especially.” He increases his tempo a little, wringing a startled cry out of Itachi. Shisui is almost curled over him now, kissing and touching and complimenting, everywhere, all at once. “Fucking gorgeous, so gorgeous, you have no idea—”

“Shi—” Itachi manages, and then he's locking eyes with Shisui, pulling him down for another kiss, this one the desperate kind; Shisui can feel the come spill over his hand, feel Itachi convulse against him, and eases his ministrations.

He keeps kissing Itachi, at the corner of his mouth, on his fluttering eyelids, on his temple. “You're so beautiful,” Shisui repeats, tone softer this time. “You should see yourself.”

Itachi takes a shuddering breath, opening his eyes. “I don't think I want to.” He's quiet, a churchgoer in an empty sacristy.

Not something to unpack right now, Shisui tells himself. There'll be time. He'll _make_ time. “Okay, okay,” Shisui says; he wipes the come off his hand onto the shirt he's wearing, before pulling it off and balling it up. “C'mere, okay?” He cleans up the rest of it, wiping across Itachi's stomach before tossing the offending shirt onto the floor.

Itachi wrinkles his nose. “Hm.” He tucks himself back into his sweatpants; he's still a little flushed. There's the faintest sheen of sweat on his forehead. “What about you?” he asks.

As tempting as it is, Shisui realizes that this is where he has to be the bigger person. “What do you mean, what about me?” He feels awkward, now, gangly and out of place and itching to crawl out of his own skin. This is confusing, intoxicating, something else entirely—“This is about you.”

Itachi is silent for a long moment, and then mumbles something incoherent. He doesn't sound quite like himself.

“What?” Shisui asks.

Of course, then he wakes up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. you can @ me for it [here](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) .


	5. saturday: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deepest apologies for last chapter. everyone who said 'how could you' was completely valid.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly, right next to Shisui's ear. “Hey, get up. It's almost nine.”

“Mmmh,” Shisui grunts, and rolls over onto his stomach. He'd really like to hold on to this dream for as long as possible, maybe long enough to make it to the shower before he wakes up all the way. It occurs to him that jerking off to someone in the same apartment—fuck, the same _room—_ as him is all kinds of fucked up. Unfortunately, it's likely all too late in the game to start debating some of the rather grey areas of his morality, which has already shrunken in the wash and turned a weird pesticide color. He grabs the other pillow, pulls it over his head, and wills himself back to sleep.

Someone is jostling his shoulder. Shisui contemplates the fact that it's very possibly someone here to kill him who wants him conscious for the main event, and then decides that he doesn't care. He can die a happy man now.

“C'mon, lazy ass, get up,” the voice snaps, all semblance of nicety gone, and well. That's a little rude.

“Go the fuck away,” Shisui says, although being muffled by the pillows somewhat diminishes how intimidating he sounds. He rolls back over, looking up. “You,” he says, annoyed.

Obito looks down at him; he's wearing the same clothes as last night, and looks rather like he hasn't slept at all. “Yes, me, you little shit.” His lips quirk suggestively. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Shisui groans, slapping the pillow back over his face. Dealing with Obito first thing in the morning requires either cocaine or a masters in clinical psychology. Unfortunately, Shisui has neither. “What are you here for?” he forces out.

“Well,” Obito says happily, “I came to drop off the recording from earlier today, and check in on you and Lolita there.” He jerks a thumb in the general direction of the kitchen. “Like, I hate to interrupt you huffing his shampoo off the pillow, but you have shit to do.”

“Was not,” Shisui replies, without any real conviction. It is altogether unconvincing, and he knows it; even if he had some semblance of dignity, Obito would still hassle him over _something_. He's fairly sure the man would die if he didn't have someone to mock at least three times per day. “Was just getting up.”

“I'm sure you were,” Obito says, patronizing. “Coffee in the kitchen, come on.” He slaps Shisui on the shoulder. “Up and at 'em.” He pushes himself off the bed and heads for the door.

Shisui sits up at the edge of the bed, blinking blearily. “Saturday.”

Obito has the audacity to look affronted. Why, Shisui will never know; he's found Obito in much worse states, including but not limited to naked, naked and covered in blood, wearing a lurid purple bathrobe and not much else, and he could go on—although that's all beside the point, really. What he's going for is that Obito has absolutely no ground to stand on here. “Yes, Saturday. Put on some pants, will you?”

“Jesus,” Shisui gripes, yanking open the nightstand drawer. “Can you give me two seconds?” He pulls out another pair of sweatpants and tugs them on.

Obito shakes his head. “Virgin eyes, Shisui.” He leans a little closer. “Fugaku will have you drawn and quartered, man. Don't even try it.”

Going back to bed for a second time is looking better and better. “Number one,” Shisui says, and pauses, because he's become acutely aware of just how bad his mouth tastes, “Can you even give me the 'I'll kill you' talk if we're all related?” He coughs, and starts to amble down the tiny excuse of a hallway to the kitchenette. “Number two, is that talk even applicable if _you've_ gone there?”

“You say that like it wasn't good for you, asshole.” He has the gall to sound affronted. “And I mean, yeah, because you don't have a very angry, very violent father—”

“Number three,” he finishes, unperturbed, “Nothing happened. I'm not a creep. I also don't _have_ a father, lucky you.”

“You sure are a freak, though,” Obito sing-songs, checking him with a shoulder. “Honestly, though,” he adds, lowering his voice. “Watch where you're stepping here.”

Shisui looks to the side. “I know.” There are people out for Fugaku's blood—there always have been, and there always will be, forever and ever, amen. Shisui would ignore that wonderful little tidbit, but the vast majority of them don't really care which family member it comes from. In his infinite wisdom, Shisui has also managed to make the worst set of choices on the face of the earth, and somehow ended up roped into all of this.

Obito crosses his arms. When Shisui finally, _finally_ looks up at him, there's something unpleasant twisting his lips. “You've got your own looking for their pound of flesh, man. Not everyone in the department thinks the sun shines out your ass.”

“I haven't gotten complacent,” Shisui grits out. It is too fucking early for a heart to heart, or really for doing anything but have an existential crisis. “I know. For fuck's sake, I _know_.” He can't help it; his gaze flies to the ruined half of Obito's face, the basque-relief scarring that worms down his neck and disappears into the collar of his tee shirt. Shisui's seen it, all of it—felt it, cherished it, let Obito dry heave into his shoulder because you can't _really_ cry with ruined tear ducts, smoothed a hand across his bare back—

“Yeah,” Obito says, short, and he smiles. It's terrifying. “At the end of the day, no one's going to give a shit about you except _you._ ” He jerks his head at the kitchen. “I wouldn't count on _him,_ either, no matter how well you think he means.”

Something drops rather unpleasantly into the pit of Shisui's stomach. It feels rather like the moment he just _knows_ he's going to puke, usually halfway through his fourth drink. “Gotcha.” There's a bitterness to it all that he can't quite place.

Obito turns without another word and makes to head into the kitchen. “The funny part is I used to have _great_ skin,” Obito mutters, without turning around. “I mean, half of it is still great, but you know how it is.”

Shisui decides not to mention he doesn't know 'how it is', and instead elbows his way around Obito and makes a beeline for the coffee pot. While blessedly full, it's only a four-cup carafe, and likely won't be in about fifteen minutes; he keeps meaning to buy a new one, but with what money? In what time? “Oh, come on, you're fine,” he grumbles, but pulls the two dirty mugs from the sink anyway. He can hear Obito snort in the background. “Morning,” Shisui adds, chancing a peek at Itachi, who has already taken up occupancy in the sharp angle of two intersecting counter tops. Shisui notes that he's positioned in full view of the door, with the stupid fucking butcher block not two feet from his right hand. He casually reminds himself that this should not be attractive, and promises a blood sacrifice to his dick if it could just keep it cool for the next half hour.

“Good morning,” Itachi says, flat. Or, at least, it sounds flat, but after a couple agonizing weeks of living with him, Shisui picks up on the subtle notes of irritability that color his body language. “I didn't know there was another key.” Itachi taps a finger on the side of his mug, tilts his head just slightly. “Or was that meant to be a surprise?” With anyone else it would sound sarcastic, but not with Itachi; somehow, it makes the fact that this is his version of a shouting confrontation worse.

Shisui shrugs, and focuses on pouring his coffee. Maybe if he acts like it isn't a big deal, it won't _be_ a big deal. “He's a cop, and also family, and also it didn't seem important at the time?” He hands a mug off to Obito, keeping the other for himself. He sips and grimaces; an overwhelming sweetness clings to the unwashed rim, and he has a sudden flash of Itachi and his stupid bun and his stupid coffee cups sitting at the stupid table drinking stupid coffee with a _clearly_ stupid amount of sugar in it, and it _is_ a fucking Uchiha thing after all, except _him_ , apparently—

Itachi's eyes narrow. “When you say 'at the time', do you mean any potential time we've interacted since I've moved in here?”

Shisui sucks in a breath. In his periphery, he can see Obito drop into one of the chairs at the (stupid) table, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think the asshole was amused. No, fuck that, he's definitely amused. “I'm not really a good cop, if it helps ease your mind,” he interjects. “I'm actually a terrible cop, a very very _bad_ cop—”

“You could at least _pretend_ to be an adult for once, for chrissake,” Shisui snaps, and by god, someone definitely has it out for him today. With friends like these, he thinks gloomily, turning to face Itachi. “I don't know,” he adds. “It never seemed relevant.”

“Can you explain,” Itachi says, slow as a death knell, “how you define _relevant?”_

“I just got up,” Shisui says; it takes a rather valiant effort to modulate his tone. “Could you maybe save the cross-examinaton for later?”

Itachi continues to stand there, his preferred tea in hand; aside from a definite tension around his eyes, he looks perfectly calm. “That's fine,” he says coolly. “You seem to like to talk about things _later._ Which is fine. We can talk about it.” He tilts his head, just slightly. _“Later.”_

It really isn't fair, Shisui reflects, as Itachi sets his mug onto the counter with just _slightly_ more force than usual, and stalks off into the bathroom. No one should get to look that good with bedhead, while drowning in a too-big sweatshirt. Shisui swallows, wraps his hands more firmly around his cup to keep them from straying, hopes that his staring is still discreet, although really, who is he kidding?

When Shisui glances back to Obito, the jerk is tipping his chair back on two legs, wearing the biggest, most ominous smile in the history of mal-intent. “Oh man,” Obito says gleefully. “You have it _so_ bad.”

Shisui whips his head around; he can hear the shower running, although he wouldn't put it past Itachi to listen in anyway. “He's really not like that,” Shisui says, and then grimaces. “I mean—you know what I mean. He's usually not confrontational.”

“Jesus.” Obito snorts, incredulous. “You call _that_ confrontational? He has emotions _somewhere_ , deep, deep down,.” Obito chokes back another laugh. “Way deep. I'm sure they're in there somewhere. Just because you're too much of a thick-headed asshole to bring them out doesn't mean anything.”

Shisui is quickly developing a pounding headache in his right temple. “I really didn't think that the key thing would be an issue.”

“Why would you? You aren't the one they're gunning for,” Obito says, matter-of-fact. “I mean, you are, just not in the same way. Your face isn't up on a bulletin board downtown, you know?” He takes another sip of coffee, staring at Shisui over the rim of the mug. “It is, actually,” he amends after a moment, “But I don't count it, because it's a terrible picture of you.”

“Did you want to volunteer a better one?” Shisui says, and then immediately regrets it.

Obito's manic grin makes a return. “I'm sure there are a couple somewhere.” He snaps his fingers, as if trying to remember. “You know, I don't think I would want those up there either, if I were you. Or me.”

Shisui sighs, and once again damns his past self to the most unpleasant afterlife possible. “Uh, the blackmail ones or the criminal evidence ones?” he asks, determined not to cringe. Both are unpleasant to think about.

He has the gall to look insulted. “The shot from when you got booked but didn't get charged, dumbass. I'm a loveable jerk, not a cold-hearted bastard.” He lets the chair tip back onto all four legs. “I got rid of the other ones. Compromising for everybody, if you remember.”

Shisui nods in acknowledgment, and focuses resolutely on his feet, boxed into squares of worn linoleum. “Thanks.” He coughs, and prays to god his flush isn't visible. The blackmail pictures would be bad, but the criminal evidence would be worse—it's the dirty little secret of the decade, and god forbid if anyone knew. His entire position with the family is based only on his reputation, which, in actuality, is just terrible.

Obito looks him over, appraising. “I said I'd help where I could.” He stretches, and then motions for Shisui to pass him the sugar bowl from the counter. “Speaking of, I found some stuff on your guy, along with _this_.” He pulls a dictaphone out of one of his larger jacket pockets and lays it on the table, gently.

Shisui is always shocked by how careful Obito is with things involving his work—he handles potential evidence more tenderly than he's ever handled any person, he's almost certain of it. With Obito, though, it hadn't ever really been about gentleness or caring or anything even remotely similar. It had been less a semblance of love, more desperation to feel something, he reflects. Of course there was attraction, or at the very least alcohol. It was casual, _fun_ , when for the most part their lives were neither.

He's jerked out of his contemplation by Obito snapping fingers impatiently under his nose, and immediately regrets ever sleeping with this fucking prick in the first place.

“C'mon, I don't have all day,” Obito gripes. “Sit down before you fall over.”

Shisui frowns, but acquiesces. “So what are we listening to, exactly?” It _almost_ sounds like a voice; it modulates in a similar way, but there just isn't enough clarity to know for sure.

“I really don't have a fucking clue,” Obito says brightly. “Honestly. I listened to it like fifty times, at least, and it doesn't make sense at all.”He rests his elbows on the table and props his head up. “It's just _nothing_. But enough of a nothing that you know it's intentional.”

“So...” Shisui casts about for his next words, and absolutely does not think about Itachi showering. “It's an intimidation tactic, then?”

Obito shrugs. “Possibly. Maybe they just want you to know they know you're here.”

Shisui slides down until his forehead is resting on the table. “Who is _they_ ,” he moans, voice muffled. “Is it your people, or my people, or someone else entirely?”

“I don't know,” Obito says. “I don't know. I figured I'd leave it with you.”

Shisui feels fingers carding through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Alright.”

“I made a duplicate,” he adds. “I'll have Hatake listen to it, if he ever calls me back. Also, you're gross.” He does not, however, move his hand away.

Shisui sighs. “I know.”

“You doing okay with everything?” Obito asks tentatively, and Shisui almost wants to laugh. Which everything? What part? Is there an actual designated way that's 'okay' as compared to everything else?

“Nah, I'm good.” Shisui sits up again, stretches. The shower is off, and he looks to the bathroom door expectantly. “Maybe have him show you where he saw the guy.”

“Yeah,” Obito says. “Yeah, no, I'm good on that front.” He scratches idly at Shisui's head one more time. “I don't think he likes me very much,” he remarks.

Shisui yawns. “You're not very likeable.” He gets up and meanders back over to the coffee pot, which seems to be an insurmountable distance away (four feet, give or take).

“You're not very _polite_ ,” Obito retorts, tipping his chair back on two legs again. “After all I do for you.”

Shisui rolls his eyes.

“I bring nothing but happiness and pleasure to your existence—”

“Fuck off,” Shisui mutters, and then yelps as Obito slaps him on the ass. “Fuck _off,”_ he repeats.

Obito smirks. “Maybe later, if you're good.”

“I hate you so much,” Shisui sighs, digging through a drawer for a notepad and a pen. “Don't you have a home?”

“Don't you have a shower?” Obito shoots back, cackling. “Anyway, I gotta go,” he says, pushing his chair back. “Have a listen at that, okay? Call me if anything happens.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Shisui says dismissively, dumping pad and pens unceremoniously onto the table. He sets down a second cup of coffee much more gently, as is its due. “Get out of my apartment, Obito,” he adds, without any real heat.

Obito sighs, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair and putting it back on. “Alright, alright, I'll give you two some _privacy_ —”

“Oh, no, that isn't necessary,” Itachi cuts in softly. He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “Please, stay if you like.” His tone makes it very clear that he _does not_ want Obito to stay in this apartment, or potentially in the land of the living.

Shisui looks to Itachi and then to Obito, and decides Obito looks far too amused. “Obito,” he says slowly, “I'll talk to you later?” He jerks his head hopefully inconspicuously at the door.

Obito shrugs in return, zipping up his coat. “Sure, man, keep in touch. Have fun.” He winks, probably just to make the situation worse, because it's _Obito_. “Let me know if you want to get together.”

Shisui turns back to Itachi, who has not moved at all. This is both impressive and terrifying. “Will do,” he says weakly, fighting the urge to put his head back down. Honestly, the only thing stopping him at this point is that his hair might leave grease and/or leftover product on the table. In the background, he can hear the creak of the door opening. He locks eyes with Itachi, who still has neither moved nor _blinked_ , if Shisui's observations are correct.

“By the way,” Obito calls, from halfway out the door, “You're mostly out of sugar, you're going to want to get some more.”

Itachi's frown increases incrementally. The door slams shut, and it's much more ominous than it would be in other circumstances, namely because Itachi is looking at him as if he's recently murdered multiple people, which, yeah, okay, is a probability, but like innocent people, or ones he wasn't specifically _hired_ to kill—

“So,” Shisui says. “How was your shower?”

“That was highly unprofessional,” Itachi says, and wow, it would almost be better if he raised his voice or something.

“Whoah, okay,” Shisui says, holding up a hand. “I'm not asking for details, I meant more like half the time the hot water doesn't work—”

Itachi slams a hand on the doorframe, and it's startling. It is _hugely_ startling. “That is _not_ what I meant and you know it,” he says, and although he still hasn't adjusted volume, he's much more emphatic now. “Him coming in here, having a key?” Itachi paces over to the kitchen table, standing opposite Shisui. “How, exactly, is that safe?” He glares down at Shisui. “I assumed you were well aware of the potential _issues_ we have with the law right now _._ Was I wrong?” Each word drops out like a lead balloon, and Shisui can almost picture them making little dents in the floor.

“Itachi, he is _on our side_ ,” Shisui says slowly, as if Itachi is a very small child attempting to understand a complex math equation. “He is with _us—_ ”

“How do you know that?” Itachi counters. “ _How,_ Shisui, because I would _love_ to know.”

Shisui would _love_ to explain, honestly he would, but here's where it hurts. He can't know that Shisui is trying to get him _out_ of this, away from this shitshow of a family, out of the disbarment coming if he gets caught, out of the eventual jail time or probation or anything else he'll get by giving blood to blood—

“You have to trust me.” Shisui's eyes rove over Itachi's face, then his neck, and then the rest of him. Now is definitely not the time to notice small things, Shisui decides, or to think about the dream he had last night, or note that his cousin's cheeks are sightly flushed from either the shower or annoyance, but either way it is definitely _hot—_ “I just _know_ , okay?” Shisui says irritably. “I'm doing my job. I don't have to explain anything to you.” Itachi does not need to know, under any circumstances, that Shisui's actual job and his purported job are two very different things.

“If—if whatever it is that's going on is impeding your ability, I think you _do_ ,” Itachi snaps back.

“What are you gonna do, sue me?” Shisui rolls his eyes without bothering to be discreet. “Come on, Itachi, nothing is 'impeding my ability'.” He throws some exaggerated air quotes in for good measure.

“Is it?” Itachi steps back a little, and paces to the sink. “Can you really make that argument, Shisui?”

Shisui lets his eyes follow Itachi as he settles in against the drainboard, in the corner. He imagines that this is what he looks like in a courtroom, and then comes to the acute realization that he's the one on trial. Shisui considers that he shouldn't find this arousing, but does anyway, and wonders if therapy has ever been a viable option. God, even his name—his name sounds so _good_ out of Itachi's mouth—

“Firstly,” Itachi says, crossing his arms again, “You waking up at odd hours from what is likely a diagnosable panic disorder does not lend you any credibility.” One shoulder hitches a little higher than the other as he leans to one side. “Secondly, how can I be assured that you can do your _job?_ My father trusts you—”

“And yeah, you trust him _so much_ ,” Shisui cuts in, and suddenly his mouth is definitely running off without him or potentially any censure whatsoever.

“—for some reason unbeknownst to me,” Itachi continues, as if he hasn't even heard Shisui. “But has he seen your terrible sleeping habits, the substance abuse, the complete disregard for _protocol?”_

“Smoking cigarettes hardly counts as substance abuse, and I've only had _one_ in the last five days.”

“I am _not_ referring to cigarettes, Shisui, although they are terrible for you regardless. I am aware of precisely how many bottles of vodka you buy in a month, even the one in the toilet tank. Thirdly, your potentially compromising relationship with _Obito_ , of all people, isn't worrying you at all?” Itachi stares at him, searching his face for any form of concession. “You realize that he is no longer associated with the family in any way aside from your sordid—” Itachi cuts himself off, and he turns red.

“Excuse me, what?” Shisui interrupts. He can't quite help it; as infatuated as he might be, there's always a line. “My sordid _what,_ Itachi? The fact that I'm capable of making _friends_ is what's bothering you so much?”

“I'm not an idiot, Shisui,” Itachi says, strained. It looks like he's struggling to keep himself in place. “I really wish you'd stop insulting my intelligence.”

Shisui gets up and plants both hands on the table. “Well, I don't know what to tell you, then,” he says, tone vicious. “What's bothering you so much? That I can actually _relate_ to other people outside of an academic setting—”

“You have the gall to—” Itachi cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Talking to you is useless.”

Shisui bites the inside of his cheek. “Too late,” he snaps. “We're already talking, and we're going to finish talking!”

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Itachi snarls, and this time his voice makes it above his usual appropriate volume, if only by a little. “Maybe explain to me how _sleeping_ with him is helping you better do your job? He has a _key,_ Shisui. Someone who is not _with_ us has a _key._ ”

Shisui is brought to a standstill; part of him is a little shocked that Itachi actually picked up on it, and the remainder is a little relieved that _that's all he thinks it is._ He'd rather have Itachi think him an asshole and make it out of this okay than have him think the world of Shisui once his life is inevitably ruined. Call him a fatalist, but still. “Itachi,” Shisui says, and then stops entirely, rubbing a hand over his face. “Itachi, please trust me.” He doesn't correct him on any of it—all of it has been true, at one point in time or another. “I wouldn't have given him a key unless I trusted him with my life.”

Itachi's lips narrow into a thin line. “Fine,” he says tersely. The _what about mine_ is implied. “I don't care, by the way.”

“What?”

“I don't _care_ ,” Itachi repeats, forcing out each word. “About who you—what you want to—”

“Oh, that I fuck men too,” Shisui says, tone falsely casual. “I'm glad you're okay with that,” he adds, sardonic. “Means the world to me.” He hates what he says immediately after he says it, but just as well. He has a snowball's chance in hell with Itachi, so it shouldn't really matter.

Itachi flinches at the word 'fuck', and Shisui can't help but feel a little guilty. “I—I didn't mean it like that,” Itachi mumbles. “I know it's a difficult topic, I just wanted you to know it doesn't.” He swallows. “Doesn't bother me.”

However misguided, Shisui can't help but admire his tenacity. Itachi can barely handle a spur of the moment conversation on a _good_ day, let alone after tonight. Guilt prickles in his stomach, and he hates it. “Okay,” Shisui says tentatively. “Okay.” Most of the tension is draining out of the room, slipping down through the framework and lattices of the house. When they are both silent, other sounds can be heard—the dog barking, someone slamming a door, a hot water heater on the floor below clanging faintly. “I'm going to shower,” Shisui says. “Please don't leave the apartment.”

“Okay,” Itachi says, and just like that, he's back to his monotonous self. “I have work to do anyway.” He scoops his mug from the counter—although it's likely cold by now, Shisui thinks—and stalks into Shisui's pathetic excuse for a living room. In his periphery, Shisui can see him curl up on the couch, feline; he's retrieved the sweatshirt of Shisui's that he'd absconded with last night, and is using it as a makeshift blanket.

Shisui locks the bathroom door and runs the shower as hot as he can. He washes his hair three times and only gets out once in the middle to check the door and make sure the window is locked from earlier this morning.

He's about to get out when he mutters “Fuck it,” and resolves to pray to whatever god exists for forgiveness later; when he comes hard against the tile, he pretends he doesn't imagine anyone in particular.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell with [me](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/)!! I love to talk about meaningless stuff and weird tidbits that didn't make it into the fic itself!!


	6. bodega

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skim milk is just milk flavored water and you all can @ me on that

Shisui cannot look Itachi in the eye when he leaves the bathroom. He ducks directly into his room, clutching a towel around his waist, and pointedly ignoring the individual making himself at home on Shisui's couch. Jesus, he can barely look _himself_ in the eye on a _good_ day, let alone on a day when he's sent to do something on the far side of 'wrong', like an assassination, or information 'gathering', or jerking it to his much more innocent cousin in the other room. Shisui rolls his eyes, mostly at himself, and yanks a new pair of underwear out of the nightstand. He tugs them on, and then yesterday's jeans, and then a shirt from the floor that doesn't _smell_ like it's been worn, so it must be okay, right?

He sighs, and then flops onto the bed fully dressed. Honestly, Shisui wants nothing more than to go back to sleep, or maybe to become someone else overnight. He shuts his eyes, turning his head into the pillow.

“Fuck,” he mutters, before taking the offending pillow and tossing it at the door. Obito was right, the pillow smells like Itachi's shampoo, and he is _not_ going to be caught dead pulling some creepy shit worthy of a prime-time police procedural. He stares at the water stain on the ceiling—he's become very familiar with Pangaea's geography, thanks—and wishes he were anybody else.

Shisui lays there for an indeterminate amount of time, until his eyesight is fuzzing with the overwhelming desire to go back to sleep. He must, at some point, because he kind of loses the thread of things until the door is creaking open and he's suddenly far, far too awake, heart hammering. He realizes too late that he's already lunging for the nightstand; his fingers brush over the stippled grip of the knife before he yanks his hand back. “Itachi?”

Itachi stares at him from the doorway, wide-eyed. “It's me,” he says quietly. “I thought you might've fallen asleep again.”

“Yeah, no, I'm up,” Shisui stammers. “I'm good.” He hopes the half-light is enough shadow to hide in. He might as well shower again, dirty as he feels—but not a _sexual_ dirty; he's come to terms with that, generally speaking. It's more of an irascible 'I can never really get clean' that bothers him, and doing things like going straight for a weapon when it's just his _cousin_ kind of fuck him up a little bit.

Itachi doesn't say anything, but his eyebrows are definitely making some kind of silent judgment.

“Are you ready?” Shisui asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He bends over to pull a jacket out from underneath the edge of the duvet; with his face hidden, he tries to catch his breath. “If there's anything you wanted, just add it to the list on the kitchen table.”

“Shisui,” Itachi says, and he's doing the doorway-leaning thing that Shisui hates again.

“It's not really a list, you're right,” Shisui rambles, “But I meant to make it into a list, I just kind of got distracted, you know what I mean—”

“Shisui.” He would look frighteningly businesslike, if Shisui didn't find him so adorable.

Shisui breathes out, very slowly. “I heard you the first time.” He brushes past Itachi on his way out the door. “I asked if you were ready to go.”

Complete and utter silence pervades for approximately forty five seconds, and it's far more telling than any harsh words could be. Shisui sometimes thinks that Itachi is _better_ at communicating emotion than most other people he's met; it's just confusing at first, because he does it through lack of action as opposed to lashing out. He seriously considers a ceremonial suicide for all of half a minute.

“Do you want me to go,” Itachi says, and it's definitely not a question. “With you.” Someone really needs to speak to him about intonation, and making clear what is and what isn't a question.

Shisui runs a hand over his face and turns to lean against the loveseat by the door. “What do you want me to do, leave you in this death trap of an apartment while there's some creep skulking around?” In retrospect, he considers that he might be the only creep for miles around; after a second, he quashes the thought and prays for absolution.

Itachi's mouth twitches. “Skulking?”

“You know what I mean.” Shisui flaps a hand at him distractedly. “Lurking. Up to no good.” He shoves his feet back into his shoes and tugs them over his foot, without bothering to untie the laces. It is very likely to bother Itachi; he's previously vocalized his displeasure—albeit politely—regarding Shisui's terrible, heathen habits, and you know what, he's feeling a little petty today. “Almost ready?” He sniffs, then wipes his nose on his jacket cuff for good measure.

“Of course,” Itachi says, and he isn't _annoyed_ , per se, but there's definitely something going on there. Unfortunately, it's doing nothing to negate Shisui's attraction to him, which, wow, really sucks. “All right, then.” Shisui is very proud of himself, in that he manages to usher them both out onto the landing without any difficulty, _with_ his keys in hand; there is, however, a moment of terse, thick silence, during which Shisui checks the locked door three times and kicks it once for good measure. Itachi, to his credit, says nothing.

“Okay,” Shisui exhales, with forced cheer. “Here we go!” He begins down the creaking stairs with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. Behind him, Itachi continues at a much more steady pace; Shisui is loath to admit to himself that he turns around when he gets to the bottom and stares. It's easy enough to camouflage as impatience, although if he'd stood there half an hour it wouldn't have been long enough. Honestly, he'd hoped that the shower scene this morning would have kind of cured the creepy part of the attraction, but really. Come _on_ , he tells himself. _Get over it ._

Itachi coughs, potentially as a way of getting his attention that will _not_ end with Shisui groping for some sort of destructive implement. He picks things up very quickly. “Four blocks over and one down, correct?” The bun has made a return today. Shisui attempts to think of a platonic, neutral way to say 'wow, you know, that hairstyle really complements your bone structure', and comes up with nothing.

“Uh, yeah.” Shisui sticks his hands into his pockets, curling them into fists somewhere out of sight. “What do you need?” He himself just needs to get more coffee, some semblance of fruit so they don't die of scurvy, and maybe eggs-bread-milk if he feels like it.

Their breath fogs out into little cumulus clouds. It isn't terribly cold, but cold enough to make a rainy day unpleasant, or to coax a tinge of red out onto the line of Itachi's cheekbones, which is in _no way_ reminiscent of how he looked in that awful terrible no-good very-bad dream Shisui had of the two of them last night—

“Sugar,” Itachi says, and this time there is a definite sour note to his voice. “I think Obito used the rest of it.” There's an implied accusatory there; there has to be.

Shisui raises his eyes skyward and prays for deliverance, and maybe for a call to a life of prayer and solitude, so he never has to deal with any of this shit again. “Alright. And sugar.”

They've been walking for maybe five or six minutes when Itachi mumbles something.

“What?”

“Vegetables?”

Shisui snorts. “Maybe. Who needs vegetables?”

Itachi just sighs, and walks a little faster.

It's still relatively early for a Saturday, and it's overcast—thankfully, there aren't more than small, straggling clumps of people, which is about all Shisui can handle right now. It isn't so much an immediate danger as it is a general uneasiness, the churning in his stomach that something terrible is about to happen that he can't foresee in the slightest. He coughs, and keeps his hands balled up in his pockets where they can't misbehave, and watches the back of Itachi's neck, imagines the way the faint outlines of vertebrae would feel under his hands, and decides if he wants vegetables, vegetables he'll get.

The corner store, which likely had an actual name at some point, but is now just colloquially 'the corner store', is a small, brown-bricked establishment, lined with red and white signs in both English and Spanish; the panels in the glass door have chicken wire spidering through them, and if you look at it from far enough away or if you're drunk enough, it looks like a part of a particularly dilapidated birdcage.

Itachi stops near the door, and turns halfway. He doesn't say anything, just stands there and looks expectantly at Shisui.

“Sorry,” Shisui huffs out, and covers the last square panels of the sidewalk with a little more haste than usual. “Here, sorry.” He yanks the door open and gestures inside; a bell chimes somewhere from within.

Itachi ducks into the shop; out of the corner of his eye, Shisui can see that he's staring again, but Shisui is busy—he's still standing in the doorway, scanning the street, memorizing as much as he can. Old man, cane, blue jacket. Mother and baby, forest green stroller. Man on the corner, black coat black hat. Young woman in a bright yellow windbreaker. All innocuous, until they're not. Shisui wishes he had an actual weapon for self defense, or that he'd gone by himself, or that they were both home, or that he was still in bed—

Someone touches his arm, and Shisui only just manages to not jump out of his skin. “What?” he asks, more sharply than necessary. Today just feels wrong _,_ all over wrong.

“You should shut the door,” Itachi answers quietly. “It's cold outside.”

Shisui thinks about the recording sitting on his kitchen table, and the three different locks on the apartment door, and what it feels like to sleep in a bed with someone without touching them at all. “Yeah,” he says, and he lets the door swing shut, although he gives the street outside one more reproving look. “Yeah, it is, sorry.”

“You keep—” His hands flex by his sides, fingers unfurling and then clenching into fists again. His coat sleeves hang down just a little too far. “You keep apologizing.” In a dramatic contrast to earlier today, Itachi studiously avoids his gaze, and instead begins to meander down the nearest aisle. “It's unlike you.”

“Look,” Shisui says, trailing behind him. “Look, if this is about what happened earlier—”

Itachi picks up a bag of whole wheat sandwich bread. “It isn't about that.” He flips the loaf over, pushes his glasses up his nose, and begins to inspect the nutritional information.

“Okay, so can we maybe not talk about it?” Shisui asks. “Or anything like that?” He can hear the bell chime again in the background, and peers up over the shelves. It's just the old man from across the street, Blue Jacket, but still, you never really know, do you—

Itachi sighs audibly. It's a temporary acquiescence, that much is obvious, at least to Shisui. It's taken weeks, but he's finally started to catch on. Itachi's long periods of silence aren't really _silence,_ per se; they're more a lapse into another language, one he struggles to parse some days. One eyebrow at a certain angle, infinitesimal twitches that can barely pass for micro-expressions, the degree that his head tilts at, how he holds his hands—it all means something, although he isn't always sure of _what_.

Itachi puts back the first loaf of bread and selects one that advertises the nine types of whole grain in it instead. Apparently satisfied with his verdict, he starts off slowly towards the small milk cooler in the corner.

Shisui follows, as he always does, hands in pockets. The attention to detail is weirdly endearing, no matter how miffed he might be over today's dramatics. He stands next to Itachi this time, and genuinely tries for a facial expression other than 'paranoia and distress'. “What kind of coffee do you want me to get?”

Itachi shrugs. “I'll drink whatever you buy.” His hand hovers in front of the two percent, and then flits over to the whole milk instead. “I have enough tea for right now.”

“All right.” Shisui continues to watch him, and wonders exactly how he can look good even under terrible, half-hearted florescent lighting. “So, I don't need to go to Hoboken to get that fair-trade, organic—”

Itachi's lips twitch. “I thought you would know I was joking,” he says carefully, but there's definitely a smile creeping across his face.

“It's very hard to tell when you're joking, in my defense,” Shisui says, and he must have been dropped on the head as a baby, because somehow Shisui manages to go from scanning the same twelve cartons of milk over and over to looking at Itachi, and the weird pulling sensation in his chest can't be normal. He's tried training himself not to want, not to take more than necessary, has designed his life around being inconsequential, but it is _not working_ this time _._

And all Itachi is doing is standing there staring at some milk, holding a loaf of bread, smiling just a little bit, looking like something out of a very, very bizarre experience with hallucinogens, or maybe a fever dream. For fuck's sake, maybe he's still home in bed and this is all an elaborate configuration of his subconscious, and he's going to have to wake up to Obito again. Jesus.

Ridiculous, Shisui thinks, and just continues to watch, like an idiot. He needs his head checked, or maybe to spend a day or two hanging onto a buoy in the Hudson to clear his head and potentially die from all the pollutants. “You know,” he says, after a moment, “Just get the whole milk.” Watching him go back and forth between the two types is agonizing. And cute. But agonizing.

Itachi is impassive. “Don't rush me,” he says. “The skim will last longer.”

Shisui sighs. “Yeah, because no one will drink it.”

“It's also better for you.” Itachi fixes him with a solemn look. “You should really take better care of yourself.”

He snorts in response. “Like you're one to talk.” Shisui opens the little cooler and grabs the whole milk himself, and then strides over to the ramshackle wire stand of only slightly questionable canned goods. Plastic strips hang from the top bar on each side, bristling with plantain chips, bags of salted peanuts, peanut-flavored puffs with labels in Cyrillic, beef jerky—

Itachi is the one to follow now, albeit somewhat reluctantly.

Shisui indicates a decent-size can of coffee. “What about that one?” In the background, he hears the bell chime again, heralding the entrance of yet another guest. He forces himself to stay calm, although he worries that his heart is audible from across the street.

Itachi just shrugs. “Anything is fine.” He himself takes nothing; he does drag a finger along the wire of the shelving as he peruses, wholly focused. As always. “Do you need anything else?”

Shisui shakes his head. “No, I don't think so.” He jerks his head at the little till against the far wall, set atop a wood-paneled counter. “I'm right behind you.”

Blinking, Itachi stares at him for a moment, and then walks purposefully towards the register. He only glances back at Shisui once before starting to pile his choices up on the counter—bread, a package of vegetable bouillon, . His movements are tight and mechanical.

Shisui hefts the jug of milk in one hand and grabs a jar of honey with the other, and figures Itachi will like it if he doesn't end up breaking it over someone's skull. He peers around the corner of the aisle, at the front window of the shop. The chime was the elderly man leaving, and he's about to exhale and congratulate himself on escaping notice when he sees the third man. He's across the street, right on the corner, exactly where he was when they went in. It wouldn't be unusual, Shisui thinks, but there's no bus stop there, no reason to stand there in a black jacket and stare at this corner store with a pager—or a gun—clipped under his belt. (He tucks the milk into the crook of his arm and grabs a package of cough drops and a decongestant. It would be good to just _have_ , he reasons with himself. It would make sense to.) His posture isn't good enough to be a fellow undercover, either, which is worrisome, to say the least. At least if it were a fucking cop he could holler at someone across the river about it later; of course, nothing is that easy.

Swallowing hard, Shisui forces himself to turn his back on the man and walk to the counter, one foot in front of the other. He schools his features into neutrality—to try for something genial right now would be overkill, if not impossible. Carefully, he places the milk and the jar of honey on the counter, and nods to the man behind the counter. “How've you been, old man?” he asks, trying to inject something a little more lighthearted. He chews the inside of his cheek. He's asked the man's name ten times, maybe, stretched across months, and gotten nothing more than an incredulous look in response. Shisui has largely given up on meaningful person-to-person interaction at this point.

Old Man raises an eyebrow. “Fine, and you?”

“Good, fine,” Shisui says in reply, and realizes belatedly he's talking a little too fast. He hands over a bill and grabs a paper bag and begins piling everything in at warp speed, because their lives might actually depend on it.

“And you are?” The elderly man is speaking to Itachi now. “Late for something, the two of you?”

“Itachi. His—his cousin.” He hears Itachi cough again, something thick and frightening. It's more than clearing his throat, and Shisui files it away for future reference. “If we _are_ late for something, I'm—”

Shisui cradles the brown bag in one arm and steers Itachi out with the other, hand clamped tightly on his shoulder. “We're going,” Shisui says hurriedly. “Good, great, good to see you, talk later, bye,” he calls from the door. He's fairly certain he missed 'winning smile' and landed on 'pained grimace'.

The bell chimes again as Shisui pushes through the glass door. “Itachi,” Shisui says, voice low, “Please just do as I say for the next ten minutes.”

Itachi nods, motions tight and constrained. “On the corner?” His lips purse into a thin line.

Now, Shisui thinks, is definitely a bad time to want to kiss someone. “Yeah.” Shisui steps around his cousin, placing him on the inside of the sidewalk, with Shisui between him and the street and the man standing on the corner, who makes no secret of watching them fairly directly. It's very unprofessional, Shisui thinks. Likely not law enforcement, which only leaves another member of the family or an outside party with a stake in the matter. Neither will be particularly prudent. “We'll be fine, just stay close, yeah?” He's at ease, he tells himself, because if he believes it, it'll be all the more convincing. Shisui raises his eyebrows, tries to smile a little, forces his shoulders to relax, runs through the entire checklist he has on nonchalance and avoiding looking suspicious.

Itachi says nothing, which isn't much of a surprise; Shisui can see his eyes continually sliding to the left, trying to look past Shisui and at the man on the corner.

“No,” Shisui says firmly. “Don't look at him. He isn't there.” He hoists the bag further up on his hip. Rough paper itches the skin of his palms. “Just us, okay?”

Itachi mumbles something and pushes slightly closer, which is also odd, but not unheard-of; Shisui has always been very careful about touching, for multiple reasons, half of which need no explanation. He wonders if anything has changed because—because they've slept in the same bed, for fuck's sake, he thinks, before catching himself. His milestones for intimacy are likely to be a far cry from whatever Itachi's brain has created, and likely for the better.

He blames his cousin's closeness and his own carelessness for his lapse in judgment. “What was that?” Shisui asks, distracted, and turns back to look at their new friend. They lock eyes, and Shisui sees him put a foot forward, as if to begin to walk, and suddenly the air has become mucosal, viscous. Shisui swallows once, twice, but it stays lodged in his throat, faintly metallic. He reacts on instinct then, and winds an arm around Itachi's shoulders, already murmuring an apology.

Itachi is already tense, he can feel; thank god it doesn't seem like touching him is making it worse. The tautness in his frame is palpable, evident in his impeccable posture and even, neat steps, even as Shisui rushes and stumbles a little next to him. He's likely doing better at hiding his fear than Shisui himself—or, at least, that's what it feels like. “I can take care of myself,” Itachi repeats, in a voice that would still barely count as 'outdoors'.

Shisui really dislikes the number of bones he can feel under his hands—are humans supposed to be this angular? He can't remember, and doesn't care to. His fingers work themselves into a tight grasp on the fabric of his jacket. “I know,” he says, after a moment; he's trying to walk, trying to focus on one foot in front of the other, trying to _do his job_ and failing miserably. “I'm just here to help.”

“I'm not helpless,” he says, smooth; the angle of his chin bespeaks some private knowledge Shisui is not privy to. It's a reenactment of the night before, and he is daring Shisui to change the outcome, to do it differently.

He has a very brief, very vivid afterimage of his most recent awful dream pop into his brain uninvited at the word helpless: bare skin, hot to the touch, sheets tangled around his legs, with Itachi _definitely_ helpless in what has to be the best way, head thrown back, lips parted just slightly, eyes drifting shut—

“Uh, yeah, no,” Shisui stammers. “Of course you aren't, but like, can we argue about this later?” God, this is not happening. Bad time. What a spectacularly bad time.

Itachi glowers at the sidewalk, but accepts Shisui's frenetic pace and the arm around him without complaint, which is enough to kindle a startling happiness deep in his gut.

“Are you worried?” Itachi asks, after a few moments.

Shisui scoffs, hefting the bag of groceries further up on his hip. “Of course not. Why would I be? Everything is fine. We're going to be fine.” He walks just a little faster, pulls Itachi just a little closer. “Let's just get home first.” He shuffles the two of them along, shooting suspicious looks over his shoulder every so often.

The man hasn't moved too much, but as he grows smaller and smaller it's very clear that he's watching them intently. Shisui swears and takes an abrupt left turn, then a right; next to him, Itachi is eerily silent. There is nothing but the quiet huffs of breathing as they walk. It starts to rain again, and Shisui begins a running commentary of choice swear words in his head.

They come to a stop next to one of the covered bus shelters along County Avenue. Shisui is breathing a little harder than he'd like to admit. “We're gonna wait here for a little bit,” he says aloud, although there's probably no need to. He lets Itachi go, using both hands to hold the bag of groceries instead. “Shit, I'd be a terrible house-husband,” he mutters.

“Maybe you should stop smoking,” Itachi says, quietly enough that he could deny saying it altogether.

“I _did_ ,” Shisui protests. “That was _one._ ” Maybe he's just more out of shape than he thought.

Itachi just sighs instead. “Someone you know?” he asks, warily. “Or you think another entity entirely?” The 'someone Obito knows, maybe' is definitely implied.

“I have _no_ idea,” Shisui answers, and he isn't really lying, because he doesn't. He has no idea if it's someone from the precinct checking up on him or one of the family associates sticking their nose where it doesn't belong, or maybe just someone who doesn't like him. “I almost hope it's a cop, because I really don't want to know in advance if your dad decided I'm a terrible influence and put out a hit on me.” Shisui wouldn't put it past him.

Itachi raises an eyebrow. “A hit on you.”

Shisui begins chewing the inside of his cheek again and resolutely does _not_ think about that dream, or what Fugaku would do if he had the ability to rip the thoughts from someone's head. “Oh, he would.” He looks up and down the street again; it's definitely emptier than usual, thanks to the chill and the weather. He'd like to wait longer before going back to the apartment, but neither option is good—stay out and risk exposure, or go to ground and risk whomever their secret admirer is finding out where he sleeps. Alternatively—more worryingly, his brain automatically corrects—they could just have it out for Itachi instead, which is arguably worse.

Logically, Shisui knows that he shouldn't be this attached to someone he's only been around for a couple months, maybe two and a half at the outside. Emotionally—and by emotionally, he definitely means romantically, or carnally, or incestuously, or whichever word means 'I'm stupid into you'—it makes _perfect_ sense, and his traitor brain is already calculating to see if he has enough money in his savings account for an engagement ring, or maybe just a french press coffee maker, because Itachi definitely wouldn't ever leave if he somehow obtained one.

When he glances over at Itachi again, his eyes are narrowed and he's staring down at the sidewalk. Maybe it's boredom, or he's lost in thought; he's wrapped the too-large jacket more tightly around himself, and no, Shisui is definitely going insane now, because who looks at their cousin and thinks 'wow, marriage material right there'? The most frightening thing is that it isn't wholly sexual—that he could deal with and ignore. It's the bizarre urge to encourage, protect, care for—that's what does him in.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Shisui scans the street one more time. “Fuck it,” he says, with a sense of finality. “Maybe they got bored. Let's just go.”

“You're sure?” Itachi keeps right to his elbow. “It's safe?”

“Yeah,” Shisui says, carefully. “Should be. And, I don't know, don't want to stand out in the rain forever.” He shifts the bag to one arm again and digs his keyring out of his pocket; wisely, he chooses to leave out that he can _see_ Itachi trying to subdue his shivering, and it really fucking bothers him, just like that cough, just like this entire situation.

The rain has started falling a little harder; the fat droplets smack into the concrete with a vengeance, and Shisui really, really hopes he closed that bathroom window. Or the back seat passenger window of the car. Fuck. He probably didn't. He turns to look back at Itachi, only to see him worrying his lip. “What's up?” He ducks into the alleyway, snagging the sleeve of Itachi's jacket and giving it a gentle tug.

“Nothing,” Itachi says quickly. “Just thinking.”

“Well, don't hurt yourself,” Shisui says, before he can stop himself. “Just stay close and stay _behind_ me, okay?” He swears he sees Itachi roll his eyes, but he complies regardless.

“We need to finish our conversation at some point,” Itachi mutters.

“What conversation?”

“Last night.” Itachi grabs Shisui's upper arm with one hand. “This morning. I said it earlier. You think I'm ignorant.”

Shisui scoffs, and takes a sudden turn into the narrow alley between the two houses. He stands to the side and gestures for Itachi to go first. “After you, sweetheart.”

Itachi's glare could freeze salt water. “Start taking me seriously,” he says, and squares himself toe to toe with Shisui. “” His chin juts out in a show of defiance. Shisui has to fight the irresistible urge to bend down and kiss him, or say something stupid about exactly how seriously he takes Itachi.

“I don't think that,” Shisui says slowly. “I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you, okay?” He glances down the narrow alleyway, then meets Itachi's gaze once again. “Please just trust me.”

Itachi gives him another scathing look, and turns abruptly to start up the wooden stairs. “Certainly,” he says; he's facing away from Shisui, but he can see the iron grip Itachi has on the railing. “Let me just _trust you_ ,” he says, drawing out the last two words. The dramatic effect is ruined by the fact that they are both slightly out of breath from climbing stairs, and that Itachi's commentary is likely sharper than any knife in Shisui's kitchen.

“I _do_ take you seriously,” Shisui mutters. “And you _should_.”

They shuffle about on the landing, jostling for position; rain splatters over Itachi's glasses, and Shisui is fairly certain the paper bag is going to rip if it gets any wetter. Shisui unlocks the deadbolt and the standard lock, and then nudges Itachi. “Can you reach in and get the last one?”

Itachi nods, only glancing at him for a moment. His hands are small for an adult; he has no trouble slipping a hand in and unlatching the small chain from the inside of the door.

Shisui kicks the door open with one foot and jerks his head towards the doorway. “Go on." 

Itachi gives him one last look before glancing down the stairs, towards the end of the alleyway, and then going inside.

“There you go!” Shisui calls cheerfully. “I knew you could do it!”

In the dim, filtered daylight of the apartment, he can see what looks vaguely like Itachi standing in the kitchen, glowering at him. It's a gut punch, another slip into something inaccessible.

Grinning, Shisui pushes in through the door, and he can't help it either—he looks down at the alleyway too, except he sees the flicker of movements meant to be clandestine as someone whips back around a corner. He inhales and then exhales, and forces himself inside anyway.

He'll deal with it later. They'll always be dealt with eventually; it's nothing he's a stranger to, although he'd like to avoid any altercations that might force him to move out of this apartment. He's become rather partial to it, and regardless of where he moves, he'd have to come back to see Mrs. Liu at the laundromat so she doesn't worry too much.

Itachi is waiting inside too, standing there with arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the bag of groceries. “We forgot fruit. And vegetables,” he says.

Shisui uses all his willpower to retain something reminiscent of a light-hearted demeanor. “Well, whose fault is that?” he teases. “I don't think it's too much of a shame.”

Itachi's face lifts into one of his little half-smiles that aren't really smiles, and Shisui almost forgets that there's someone skulking around outside their front door, and that this is technically only a job, and that Obito is probably, definitely right about him being totally fucked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opinion time!! I have one (1) average length chapter and one shorter than usual one up next. Do you guys want both at once and then I skip a week of updates due to other obligations, or you want one per week?
> 
> definitely [hit me up](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) or let me know in a review, direct message, carrier pigeon, etc. whatever floats your boat. 
> 
> thanks again for all the love.


	7. playing telephone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: almost titled this 'and they were _roommates_ '.

“Did you buy this?” Itachi asks, brandishing the honey in Shisui's general direction. He looks a little aggrieved, which is only amplified by the stray hairs standing out in a halo around his head. Several brush against his cheekbones, the nape of his neck, the—

“No, I stole it. Held the store up when you were agonizing over the milk,” Shisui says, through a mouth full of what he's fairly certain are stale Ritz crackers. They're old enough that he can't quite tell any more. He certainly _hopes_ they're stale Ritz crackers.

Itachi just stares at him quizzically.

Shisui finishes chewing and swallows. Stale crackers are regretful, he decides. “Yeah, I bought it,” he amends. “I thought you'd probably eat it?” Who knows, he thinks, glancing down at the half-finished sleeve. It's been about twenty minutes and he hasn't died yet, so he's assuming they're still safe to eat. “I figured, you know, sweet things—”

Itachi seems somewhat flustered. It's definitely noticeable, and a rather refreshing change from his typical seriousness. Shisui resolves to get as many surprises as possible, because jesus fucking christ, why wouldn't he? “I—no reason, I just—”

“Hey,” Shisui says, swallowing the last of the crackers in his mouth, “Maybe I was gonna eat it all myself.”

“Shisui, I have not _once_ seen you put sugar in your coffee.”

Shisui just shrugs in response, and reaches up to proffer the open sleeve of crackers to Itachi. He grins and tips his chair back on two legs; if he cranes his neck, he can watch Itachi reaching to try and put the sugar canister back; he can see just the smallest strip of skin when he reaches all the way up, and reminds himself that he is content with just looking, because that is all he will ever be allowed to do. “Tastes change.” He shakes the crackers again, trying to get Itachi's attention. “Crackers?”

Itachi makes a face. “How old are they?” he asks, gingerly pinching the plastic and pulling them out of Shisui's grasp.

Shisui holds his hands up in dismay. “They taste _fine_ ,” he says, only a little defensive. “They're _crackers_ , they don't go bad—”

“Someday,” Itachi says, “You'll die of food poisoning.” He places his other hand on the back of Shisui's chair and forces all four legs onto the ground. “Or break your neck.” He tosses the crackers into the trash.

Laughing, Shisui leans forward instead, propping a hand under his chin. “I'm sure there's a long list of people who'd like to see that.” From this angle, he can see the door to outside, and he can see quite clearly that they're all locked up. Granted, it's the middle of the day and he doesn't want to take the feeling of moderate ease for granted, but still. It's worth it.

Itachi pauses in the middle of yanking the milk out of the bag, and locks eyes with Shisui for only a moment. “I wouldn't,” he says, and then goes right back to trying to fit the jug of milk into Shisui's admittedly small refrigerator. “Anyway,” Itachi adds, “We should finish our conversation.”

“What, the heart to heart this morning wasn't enough for you?”

“No, in fact,” Itachi answers. He shuts the refrigerator with a sense of finality. “I have some concerns, actually.”

Shisui eyes the garbage can, wondering how unacceptable it would be to take the crackers back out. It's mostly paper trash, and maybe—no, he tells himself, coffee grinds. Gross. Goddamn it. “So,” Shisui drawls, stretching out the vowel. He settles into a more comfortable position. “What's up?” Shisui kicks the other chair out with his foot and gestures to it. “Step into my office,” he says, grinning.

Itachi pauses en route to the counter top, grimacing slightly, as if he's gone to reach for a piece of fruit only to find it's gone moldy. “Is this how you cope?”

“Just sit down, Freud,” Shisui gripes. “Or don't, either is fine.”

Itachi opens his mouth to reply, and the phone rings. He stops mid-word, and then glances at Shisui, and then to the phone. He's already reaching for it, and Shisui realizes very quickly that he's _fucked_ fucked now.

“Uh,” Shisui stammers. “Just let it ring.” He's on his feet in a second, edging towards the phone. “It's probably—you know, I can just call them back later or something.”

Itachi just watches him, and the hints of suspicion that linger around the edges of his features say more than he ever might. The phone cuts through the silence, the shrill tone deafening. “Shisui,” he says, just the slightest bit reproving, then picks up the phone.

Shisui can do nothing but watch Itachi stand there, the handset held gingerly to his ear, fingers automatically wrapping around the curling tan cord, eyes widening just a little at what is doubtless the sound of silence, of something like rushing water, of voices just audible enough to rise above the white noise—

“Fuck,” Shisui says eloquently, and something akin to a bowling ball or maybe a manhole cover drops into his stomach. Unfortunately, it is only partially due to the general awfulness of the situation, and the rest of it can be cheerfully chalked up to his burgeoning, continually worsening infatuation. No one really needs to know that, though, right?

Itachi's eyes narrow, and he hasn't broken eye contact with Shisui once since picking up the phone. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, but otherwise maintains a state of immobility. It is both monotonously everyday and somehow also terrifying.

Shisui wonders idly why he finds this completely worthy of absorbing all his attention before tamping the feeling down for analysis later, or maybe never.

Another forty-five seconds passes without a single sound—the longest forty-five seconds since the explosion, Shisui figures, and to be fair, watching one of your only allies/sometimes-friend/relation get blown up is a little much. At twelve fifteen exactly, he watches Itachi hang up the phone, and promptly resigns himself to the ensuing implosion. He should have written a living will upon accepting this fucking job, he thinks, although it's a bit late for that.

“What was _that_ ,” Itachi forces out, and it isn't really a question, not the way he's saying it.

Shisui says nothing, because there isn't really an answer. He turns his hand over, skims knuckles across the wood of the table. It needs to be sanded down and re-varnished at some point, he thinks; it's marred with long, straight slashes (Obito), burn marks (cigarettes, the crock pot, variegated hot pans), and several irregular splotches of ink (Itachi). It can go on the to-do list along with new blinds in the bedroom, and maybe tearing up the shag carpet from hell in the hallway.

“Shisui,” Itachi sounds very far away. “Shisui, what's going on?”

He tears his gaze away from the tabletop. Itachi is still hovering by the door; his hands move quickly, fingers interlocking and then twisting apart again, then brushing back a piece of hair, then behind his back, then—

“It's nothing,” Shisui hears himself say. “Don't worry about it. It's a scare tactic.” He forces an easiness into his demeanor; it feels unnatural, like a hangover, like waking up with his skin pulled too tight over his shoulders, like the telltale sore spot at the back of the throat before falling ill. “It'll get old eventually, too.” He stands then, pushes back the chair, one palm lingering against the table. “Don't worry,” he adds, in what is ideally a soothing voice.

“That—” Itachi clears his throat; instead of looking at Shisui, he inspects the jar of honey still sitting on the table. “It's concerning.” He coughs once, twice.

Shisui looks up at at him. “Why don't you sit down?”

“I don't trust blindly,” Itachi replies, in lieu of an answer, or actually sitting down. “I can't ignore something in front of me.” He's at his most expressive when they're alone, Shisui notes. He's still not a silent film star, but there's at least _something_ there, a lack of the guardedness that schools his features in most other conversations.

Shisui shrugs. “I'm just going to keep asking you to trust me, which—” He pauses, watching Itachi's face carefully. There's a complicated amalgamation of several emotions duking it out just beneath the surface, and it's a little painful to watch. “It's not very fair. I'm sorry.”

At the rate Itachi is chewing at the skin of his lip, Shisui honestly wonders if there will be anything left. “Okay.” The way he enunciates the word makes it into a query, a repetition of 'I don't understand'. He is still standing by the phone, still looking lost.

Shisui can feel something curling in on itself in his chest. “Sit down, okay?” He himself gets up and pulls the chair out, then moves to the sink to pour a glass of water. As he's filling it, he looks out the window: nothing, not even the dumb umbrella lady and her dumb dog. Refreshing.

He turns back to the table and sets the glass of water in front of Itachi. “I got cough drops, too,” he says, sliding them over as well. “And there's a decongestant and probably expired NyQuil in my bathroom.”

Itachi blinks twice, and he seems to relax a little. “No thank you,” he says carefully. “I'm all right for right now.”

“You sure?”

“You're avoiding the topic, Shisui.”

“Like hell I am.” Shisui fixes Itachi with a blank look. “The less you know, the better.”

Itachi laughs, and it's so notable because Shisui can count on one hand the number of times he's seen it happen. The first had been a fluke, an overheard conversation with his brother and something quiet, soft. This one—it's tinged with exasperation, not nearly as pleasant. “Shisui,” he says, and he's not quite smiling—it's more pain than amusement. It's bared teeth and chapped lips, something kinetic that works its way out through the sharp bones of his fingers. “I already know enough.”

Shisui can't quite help the defensiveness in his voice, although he knows he should be the bigger person—more professional, more mature, more realistic, but something about how Itachi _is_ just gets to him. It isn't always a blessing. “What's 'enough'?” He tilts his head to the side and scrutinizes Itachi's face.

Itachi looks at his hands, places them palms-down on either side of the glass as if he's trying to divine the future from arguably questionable city water. In a stunning contrast, he remains perfectly composed when he speaks. It's somewhat infuriating. “Typically means a sufficient amount for a specified purpose.”

“Jesus,” Shisui mutters, and he wonders how much it would hurt were he to yank off fingernails, because that would doubtlessly be _less_ painful than this conversation. “Look, I'm not doing this.”

“No one asked you to,” Itachi fires back sharply, and there's definitely an annoyed cast to his expression now. It's fairly evident, which Shisui figures means that he's _more_ irritated with him than the usual, subtle things imply.

“Your father did, actually,” Shisui snaps, and he regrets saying it even as it leaves his mouth. He leans away from the table again, tilts the chair back. The sheer annoyance on Itachi's face is almost worth it.

Itachi taps the glass of water with one finger, examining it closely. “Is it really him you work for?” he asks, in an even tone.

Shisui's jaw tightens, and he reminds himself for the tenth time that getting frustrated will get him nowhere. “I could say the same to you.”

At this, Itachi's eyes dart back up to meet his for just a second, but it's enough. There's just enough uncertainty there to garner suspicion. However, he says nothing—just picks up his glass of water, drinks, centers it right back in the exact same spot on the table.

Another minute or two passes; outside, a siren wails by. Shisui lets his chair drop back onto all four legs. He absolutely does _not_ watch Itachi's hands move against the scarred wood grain. When he does speak again, he makes an effort to keep his voice soft, gentle. “How much is _enough_ , Itachi?”

Itachi shrugs brushes a thumb over a crescent-shaped burn mark. There's an ink stain near one cuticle. “We can talk more about it Monday.” He traces its outline once, twice. “I see my parents tomorrow.”

Shisui probably should not want to put a hand over Itachi's. As a preventive measure, he tucks both of his into his lap. “Okay.” He heaves a breath. It's suddenly overwhelming, sitting here—the knowing, the not-knowing, the complete _loss_ of whatever tentative peace agreement they'd brokered over the last couple of days. “Okay.”

The next half hour is spent in silence—packing, walking, watching Itachi board a train bound for upstate New York. It's discomfiting: complete silence, in the cacophonous rumble of the station itself. When he steps away, back to Shisui, he's a stranger, one of tens of dozens of strangers crammed into a too-small space in a crush of humanity and oversized luggage.

Shisui sticks his hands in his pockets and hangs back. On a last-minute whim, he raises his voice. “Call if you need anything!” He almost certainly looks like a moron, and there's at least people giving him that look, the one that usually implies that they want him to suffer a grisly end for being too loud in a public place. Vaguely, he wonders if it's specific to _this_ city, or if it's simply a metropolitan phenomenon.

It's easy to figure out which one is Itachi; his head whips around for just a second and he nods, before vanishing into the press of the train car. He doesn't look entirely unhappy, which is probably enough, at least in Shisui's book.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, this was the shorter one. you'll have a nice long one to look forward to next week. thank you so much for all the kind words and milk opinions, too!! all are very much appreciated, and I definitely don't hoard and reread them like a literary dragon of some kind when I'm feeling down. that would be weird. super weird. 
> 
> questions? rage? tears? further milk opinions? feel free to @ [me](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) anytime.


	8. rationale: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late, and I am so very sorry!! thank you all for bearing with me! this one is another two-part; it was originally, uh, twice as long and just plain unwieldy, so. here we are.

“He knows everything,” Shisui forces out. He rolls over onto his back and sprawls out, still breathing hard. “All of it.” He grimaces a little—he's going to be sore, which he really doesn't mind; it's more bothersome that there's _still_ this itch burrowing around in his subcutaneous, and nothing as of yet has succeeded in pinning it down.

“What do you mean, 'all of it'?” Obito says to the ceiling. Only the good side of his face is visible from this angle.

Shisui forces himself to breathe in and then out again before he answers. “I mean literally all of it.” He pushes straggling curls off his forehead and makes a face—he needs to shower again, for sure. Jesus. He turns his head back, searching for the clock that's usually on Obito's nightstand. “Where's your alarm clock?”

“Threw it,” Obito responds tersely. “Can't fucking sleep for shit anyway.” The mattress shifts as he stretches. “It's like ten.”

“All right.” The lack of proper rest is definitely catching up with him, Shisui thinks. “I don't have to go back until tomorrow, midday.” Sunday is the day Itachi spends with his family, and effectively Shisui's day off. He'd meant to work on removing the Shag Rug From Hell, but clearly he makes terrible life choices and cannot hold himself accountable for anything more advanced than eventually getting out of bed.

Obito snorts derisively. “Looking forward to it?” He moves to roll onto his side but doesn't quite make it.

Shisui doesn't say anything.

“You've always liked playing house, anyway.” He's quiet enough that Shisui is afforded the option to pretend he hasn't heard, which is actually rather thoughtful, all things considered. They have a tacit agreement at this point, and somewhere among the precepts are postulates, things accepted as fact, things never discussed. Obito never brings up the drinking, or sides, or—in spite of his obsession with 'doing the right thing'—which establishment is more corrupt, the family or the police force.

Shisui, for his part, knows more than enough of what happened to avoid mentioning Rin, or the photographs missing from the apartment, or the grocery list dated three years ago last September with the coffee stain on the corner, in writing that is far neater than Obito's could ever be.

In his peripheral, Shisui sees him wince, watches as Obito tries to massage the pain out of his scarred shoulder. “It's been bad lately, then?” Shisui asks, blunt. He'd suspected as much anyway, although Obito is almost never forthcoming with it; the only giveaway is where he falls on the sliding scale of rudeness and inappropriate comments.

“It's getting cold again.” Obito makes a face at him that's half pain, half annoyance. “Of course it's gonna get worse.”

Shisui sighs, and curls up facing Obito instead. “Are you taking anything for it?” Shisui studies the side of his face. Obito is still staring pointedly up at the ceiling. Shisui is rather jealous that his ceiling doesn't have a water stain on it.

“No,” Obito says reluctantly. “At least, nothing pharmaceutical.” He smirks.

Shisui rolls his eyes and exhales loudly. “Do you want me to _get_ you anything potentially pharmaceutical?”

Obito freezes, and this time he does turn his head to look at Shisui. “Don't even,” he says sharply. “What are you, a dumbass?”

“Fine,” Shisui mutters, and he meticulously inspects the back of his hand instead. That fucking scab of mystery origins is still there, and it bothers him just as much as it did two nights ago. “Just trying to help. Jesus.”

“Yeah, that's a good idea,” Obito spits out, caustic. “Let's get you involved with drugs again. That went really well the first time.”

“That was _one time_ , Obito,” Shisui snipes back. “I—”

Obito rolls onto his stomach. His face is inches from Shisui's. “You got sloppy. You started dabbling and you got sloppy, and now you're stuck.” His remaining eye is narrowed in what might be either annoyance or concern—it's often difficult to tell. “You're in good company, though, right?”

“I know,” Shisui forces himself to say. “I fucked up.” He wants to reach out, to put a hand on Obito's shoulder or arm or face or _something_ , try to offer some small semblance of comfort, but he knows better; Obito gets like this sometimes, angry at the world, and he hates to be touched unless it's sex or a fistfight.

Obito stares at him a moment longer before rolling onto his back again, and resuming his viewing of The Ceiling Show.

Several minutes pass in silence. Shisui fights off sleep, wishes he had the willpower to get up so he could go lay down in the shower, and tries to ignore the unpleasant feeling of sweat drying on his skin. It's becoming a game of sorts, to see how long he can avoid looking sidelong at Obito, because the man has some weird complex about other people seeing him in pain.

“I'm also a cop,” Obito says conversationally, although it's been long enough since he last spoke that Shisui's almost forgotten what the conversation was about. “Like, why would you offer to get a cop drugs?” He sounds genuinely perplexed.

Shisui pushes himself into a sitting position. “You're barely a cop.”

“I didn't want them to offer it to you,” Obito adds, as he struggles to sit back up. He leans back against the wall when he does. The look on his face is alien, as if he's seeing everything from very far away. “The deal they cut you, I didn't want them to offer it to you.” He tips his head back against the wall, and props an arm on his knee. “I tried to talk them into just letting you go.”

Shisui pretends not to notice that he's breathing hard again. He's become so accustomed to reading others—their emotions, their pain, whether or not they're hiding something—that it's become nearly impossible to turn off. It hurts to watch, usually. “Obito,” Shisui says, and then stops himself.

“But no,” Obito continues; he turns to face Shisui, likely to make a point of rolling his eye. “ _No_ , you had to be a dumbass and get caught in the first place.” He shifts slightly, and then winces again. His breath leaves him in a sharp hiss. “I think the stupidity is genetic. Probably on _your_ side of the family.”

“Chill out, okay?” Shisui says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He scrounges around on the floor for boxers, and yanks them on hurriedly. “Just stay there and quit your bitching, I'll get you something.”

“There's leftover takeout in the fridge,” Obito calls after him. “And beer. Or do you just drink that girly shit now?”

Shisui blinks several times and then shakes his head; he ambles into the kitchen, which is (shockingly) smaller than Shisui's own. It's actually a little refreshing, he thinks, as he shoves a chair out of the way so he can get the fridge open. “Sorry, gotta watch my figure,” he calls back, but grabs a bottle of water and two beers anyway. He lets the fridge slam shut, and then rifles through the sparse cabinetry for some kind of ibuprofen. As he passes by the front door on the way back in, he stops and rattles the knob to make sure it's locked and deadbolted.

Obito hasn't moved when he reenters the room; he raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to play nurse now?” he asks, and looks put-upon enough that Shisui would laugh if it were anyone else. “I mean, undergoing debridement kind of ruined whatever medical fetish I _could_ have had, but I'm a very giving person, so—”

“Asshole,” Shisui mutters, and slaps the water and bottle of ibuprofen into Obito's hand. “I'm trying to make sure you don't seize up in your sleep or something.”

“That would be a good headline, though,” Obito points out thoughtfully. “ 'New York cop found dead, nubile male partner present'.” He looks rather pleased with himself. “I should just become a journalist, honestly.”.

“You do that,” Shisui says, distractedly; he's located his jacket flung into a corner, and is working on extricating his pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the breast pocket. “Make sure you sign my copy of your first article, all right?”

Obito glares at him. “You could be a little more supportive.”

“I'm very supportive,” Shisui replies patiently, and uses the lighter to open both beers. He passes one to Obito and sits back down on the bed, cross-legged. “Can I still smoke in your apartment?”

Obito wrinkles his nose in response. “Open the window, or go on the balcony or something. Also, bad example you're setting, as a nurse and shit.”

“That's a fire escape, not a balcony.”

“Same difference.”

“I'll wait,” Shisui says quickly. “Pretty sure me mostly naked on a fire escape would be kind of conspicuous.” He fights back a smile.

“It's conspicuous wherever you are, and both a misdemeanor _and_ a zoning violation.” When he drinks, he does it without breaking eye contact. “Too bad more of us don't realize that.”

Shisui immediately wishes he had about three more beers in him, so he wouldn't have to remember where this conversation is inevitably going. “Obito,” he says, and hopes his tone is enough of a warning.

“I'm just saying,” Obito protests. “Like, damn. It makes me sad to watch you about ninety-six percent of the time.” He stops for a second to toss back the pills. “The other four you're on your knees, so, you know. Can't really complain.”

“Jesus, Obito,” Shisui snaps. He reneges on his earlier decision and taps a cigarette out of his pack.

Obito watches him with chagrin. “If you must,” he says, after a moment.

“Oh, I must,” Shisui mutters, as he lights up. It shouldn't bother him, he tells himself. This is just how they are together, and it's never meant anything before, and it hasn't taken on any more significance just because Itachi knows about it now. He thinks maybe if he repeats it over and over, he might actually believe it.

Sighing, Obito waves a hand at him. “Gimme,” he says, before snatching it from between Shisui's fingers. “It's bad for you anyway.” He grins widely at Shisui.

“So, what is it?” Shisui asks. “Clearly, you're dying to say _something._ ”

“Dying every day, baby,” Obito cackles. “I'm gonna beg you to make some kind of move at some point, because this is—it's getting ridiculous.”

Shisui glares at him. “I'm working in a completely professional capacity,” he says slowly. “I'm not about to—”

“Well, you should,” Obito cuts in. “It's giving me angina just watching, and I'm also not really into the people I fuck keeping their eyes closed the whole time.” He drinks again. “I mean, you can still tell I'm not him, because—” He gestures to the left side of his body. “—feels pretty different, you know?” He shrugs lazily. “I mean, I'm not gonna turn you down, but come _on—_ ”

“Look, don't make it seem like I'm _throwing_ myself at you, okay?” It is not true in the slightest, Shisui thinks. He has absolutely _zero_ problems regarding conflating sex and any kind of emotional intimacy with love and in fact he's incredibly well-adjusted, thanks. “It's _convenient_.”

“You can admit it,” Obito says, matter-of-fact. “It's fine. You just can't get enough.”

Shisui slaps Obito's good leg absently. “Could you maybe shut the fuck up, please?” he asks, and mashes the rest of his cigarette into his empty beer bottle.

“I'm basically a god.” Obito looks over at him and makes a face. “Jesus, that's disgusting. In my house, too.”

Shisui raises his eyebrows. “Worse has happened in your house, Obito.”

“Yeah, true.”

They sit in silence for a moment.

Obito is the one to finally speak, which is altogether unsurprising. Shisui sometimes thinks he gets off to the sound of his own voice. “Look,” he says slowly, “I don't know, maybe consider doing something about it. All that repression isn't healthy.”

“Yeah,” Shisui scoffs. “Look what happened to you.”

“Yeah.” There's something in Obito's voice he can't quite place, and for just a moment, worries that he's crossed the line into territory that they don't discuss, a no-man's-land fraught with the long brown hairs that somehow _still_ turn up on pillows and jackets and in the linen drawer. “Yeah, I get it.”

Shisui reaches over to drop the bottle into the wastebasket under the nightstand; crawling back up the bed, he flops down in a sprawl of limbs. “Anything from our friend Danzo lately?” he asks, trying to keep his voice evenly modulated. “He's been unusually silent.”

When Shisui looks up, he can see the minute downwards twitch of Obito's mouth. He's remarkably good at hiding his tells, although most are unnerved enough by him that they don't spend to long looking. “He's _such_ a busy man,” Obito remarks. “So many people to manipulate, lives to ruin, children to traumatize—”

“This is _not_ the scintillating post-coital discussion I wanted, actually.” Shisui debates getting up again for water, and then decides the kitchen is too far for a second trip.

Obito lets go, and throws his hands up half-heartedly. “I give up. I can't win with you, can I?” He sighs. “You show up on my doorstep three sheets to the wind, you sleep on my couch and drool on my leg, and then after I have the basic human _decency_ to show you a good time—”

“It was like, a sheet and a half,” Shisui mutters, and reminds himself that it would be very childish to shove his face into the pillow. “A sheet and a half to the wind.” He throws an arm over his face.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy,” Obito says distractedly. “Anyway, nothing from Danzo. Haven't even seen him around lately, which.” He pauses, working his shoulder in a slow circle again. “Which I want to see as _comforting_ , but, you know, I like the body parts I have left intact, so.”

“So what?” Shisui cranes his neck trying to look up at Obito. “What do we do?”

“Depends,” Obito says. “What do you mean by like, 'everything', when you say he knows everything?” There's the faintest hint of a grin on his face, and for just a minute he looks like he did before, younger and a little dumber and a little more optimistic. “About the weird little crush you have going on? Your whole sordid history? The full and complete astrological compatibility between you and—”

Shisui sighs, and turns to stare blankly at the window. “All right, all right.” He can't bring himself to look at Obito when he talks. “Well, he knows Fugaku is a piece of shit, for starters.” The distant neon from the nearby business district barely makes it to the sill. Instead, the exterior lights on the building across the street flood a patch of scraped hardwood with a pale florescence; the window is opened just an inch or two, and soft, ambient traffic sounds drift in. The city is always moving, always machinating, always with a current beneath a still surface. “And—and probably has a vague idea.”

“Vague idea of what?” There's a rising frustration in Obito's voice; it doesn't take long, and it always serves to unnerve Shisui a little. It is _so easy_ to consistently forget that the ideal emotional range Obito has is maybe a handspan wide and takes five seconds to offset, if not less. “And what else?”

Shisui is likely silent for too long, because Obito thumps the pillow next to his head. He jumps a little.

“Shisui,” Obito says. His voice is very, very quiet, which is what usually comes before one of the shouting matches. “Shisui, what the fuck.” It's a last-ditch attempt before the nuclear option, which usually manifests itself as Obito yelling, Shisui yelling back, variegated household items somehow breaking, and the upstairs neighbor stomping on his floor in annoyance.

It feels as if he has to work the words around in his mouth before he can spit them out. “He knows about Danzo,” Shisui finally says. After that, it's easier—he reels off one thing after another, detailing the multitudes of ways he's fucked himself over. “Knows about his vendetta against the family, knows about the surveillance, knows what _I_ do—” Here, Shisui cuts himself off and looks to Obito again.

“When you say he knows what you do,” Obito says, “Do you mean like, you work for the family? Or do you think he knows you're moonlighting as an undercover?” He's relaxed somewhat, although the line of tension through his shoulders is still evident, the words still tightly wound. His hands are restless, too, which is habitual for him; he's always itching to be taking, grabbing at something just out of his reach. Shisui doesn't blame him, most days.

Shisui sucks in a shaky breath. “I don't know.” He pulls himself back up into a cross-legged position. He feels exhausted, suddenly. Old, like every year he's spent in the family's employ was actually five. “He picked up the phone, though. I don't know if he understood whatever the fuck you recorded, but he heard it.”

He can actually _see_ Obito grinding his teeth. “Did you think to, I don't know, _ask?_ ” Obito is staring at him, incredulous, and Shisui does his level best to ignore it. “Did that even occur to you, or were you too busy imagining adopting kids and cosigning on a fucking Subaru together for that to even _register?”_

Shisui opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “I, uh. I don't think he did.”

“What, because he would have said something?” Obito shakes his head, and he's smiling. It isn't a pleasant smile this time. “Yeah, absolutely, he's real forthcoming like that. Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Just calm down, okay?” Shisui becomes placating, gentle. It feels out of place. “I'll figure it out. I'll poke around, okay?” He reaches out slowly, places a hand on Obito's forearm. “I got this. I got it under control.” He's always been an excellent liar, because in all honesty the last month and a half have actually been akin to trying to drive a car without headlights through the Holland tunnel in the middle of an infrastructural collapse and partial mass transit shutdown.

Obito tenses slightly; he doesn't move, otherwise. Shisui thinks it's a little ironic that it's crazily similar to Itachi, and then forces the whole idea as far from conscious thought as possible. He doesn't need that right now. He can't deal with that right now. He's at least three different people to different individuals, and he can't be more than one— _maybe_ one and a half—at once. “Don't do that,” Obito finally says, and his voice is rough. “Don't fucking touch me like that, okay?”

Shisu freezes. Everything is suddenly very cold. “What?”

“Just don't,” Obito repeats. “All soft. I hate that.”

He does not, however, move to push Shisui away. “I know,” Shisui says quietly. Obito is lying.“I'm sorry.”

Laughing, Obito claps a hand on Shisui's wrist. “You're not. You don't have to play.” With businesslike efficiency, he pulls Shisui's hand away and drops it in his lap. Shisui lets him. “I'm not blind, Shisui,” he adds. “Not fully, at least, like, I still have _one_ eye and pretty good vision, all things considered—”

“Obito,” Shisui interrupts. “Listen, just—”

“Just do me a favor.” Obito talks over him, pretends he hasn't heard anything. He's adamant on avoiding eye contact. “Just do me a favor and look at me when I fuck you.” It's then that he rolls over and wraps the sheet around him, and turns to face the far wall.

Once again, Shisui has an uncomfortable sense of deja vu from the night before, where Itachi was the one pointedly avoiding him, avoiding even _looking_ at him, and Shisui is really starting to wonder if he's secretly adopted and everyone knows but him. It's a little nauseating and wholly confusing. “Uh.” Shisui shifts to lay down, and gets right to his first bout of self-loathing of the night, which will doubtless be followed by many happy returns. “Can do.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Obito says, and his voice is muffled by blankets. He sleeps in a cocoon, always has. Shisui has long since gotten used to either acquiring his own blanket or being suffocated along with him. Clearly, that is not an option right now.

The pipes clang in the walls, knocking against the frame of the building; Shisui drifts off and wakes up sometime around two in the morning, to Obito's head in the crook of his shoulder. He is shaking. “What,” he says, flat and groggy. “What's up.”

Obito doesn't pick his head up. “I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” Shisui says. His words are still slightly garbled with sleep. He's acutely aware that his mouth tastes terrible. He pretends he doesn't feel what are probably tears on his neck; instead, he brings a hand up and runs it down the scarred topography of Obito's back. “We're gonna be fine,” Shisui says, and he almost sounds convincing enough to fool himself. A small part of him wonders just how conscious of this Obito is, if he's half-in, half-out, just far enough away to mistake him for someone else, for Rin—

“Sure.” His voice is thick. “Your optimism is gross.”

Shisui laughs a little at that, although it's dry, stillborn. “Thanks.” He twists his fingers into Obito's hair, and immediately he thinks about his dream, the braid—fuck, the _bun,_ the look on Itachi's dream-face when Shisui touched him, when he told him he was beautiful, when he came— “Come here,” Shisui rushes out, and he tugs Obito up, up, towards him—

They have worked together for years now—known each other for longer. After such a length of time, things become habit. They become muscle memory, Shisui thinks, but he still jerks a little when Obito bites down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

They have never been sweet or gentle with one another. It is, as always, roughness and swearing and small, flickering veins of pain-adrenaline-norepinephrine, a competition—another harder than necessary bite, fingernails, a tight grip holding his arms above his head. It leaves no room for misconception, for misinterpretation; there is no space small enough for anything else to slip in, because the minute you begin to care about something—a thing, a concept, a _person—_ they take it from you.

Obito's breathing is harsh and ragged in his ear, and this time Shisui keeps his eyes open.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, as the kids say, 'keepin it in the family' 
> 
> it's fine. come yell at [me](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) if you want. it's fine. i understand.


	9. rationale: II

Shisui wakes up again around seven, with blinding sunlight streaming in through the window and what is likely divine punishment in the form of a hangover, probably for the exorbitant number of times he's sinned in the last five years. Or the last week, really, if he's being wholly honest with himself.

He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. The sun, however, is determined, and his whole head feels thick and cottony and somehow also on fire. Vaguely, he wonders if cotton is flammable. Or, potentially—he's drank enough in the last two days for it to be coming out his pores—if _he_ is flammable.

“You're up?” Obito sounds like he's standing in the doorway, and there's the faint smell of coffee. Shisui would actually open his eyes, but he isn't prepared to lose his vision completely, so he just burrows further into the blankets. “About time!” he says cheerfully. There's a give in the mattress as he sits on the edge of the bed.

Shisui shields his eyes with one hand and looks to the side. “You are _so_ not what I want to see first thing in the morning,” he mutters, and turns his face back into the mattress. Obito has clearly already showered and made coffee, and Shisui can't stand morning people.

“Relax, princess,” Obito says. He sounds relaxed, nonchalant—he is frighteningly good at pretending nothing has happened after he has any sort of moment of weakness. “And what, you want me to start growing my hair out? Make a stupid little bun?” The mocking grin is audible. “Do you have a hair fetish now?” In fact, Shisui contemplates, he seems to make a habit of being even _more_ of a total dick than usual to make up for it.

“Shut the blinds, please,” Shisui says tonelessly. “I think I'm dying.” Nevertheless, he sits up, albeit slowly. Obito smirking at him like he's been gifted the meaning of the universe somewhere between coffee and a shower is _definitely_ not his idea of a good morning, but it still ranks higher on the list of things to wake up to than, say, in custody. He zeroes in on the mug of coffee in Obito's hand and reaches for it.

“No,” Obito says quickly, proffering a glass of water instead. “Unless you want me to water you like a plant, in which case—”

“Jesus, you're such a nag,” Shisui mumbles, but takes the water anyway. He doesn't bother to ask why Obito is awake already. He's always made it a point to emphasize that he's _fine,_ thanks, exactly how he was before the explosion, and when it takes you half an hour to force your body to cooperate enough to get out of bed, it takes away from that impression. Shisui knows better than to try to help, so now he just sleeps late and hopes Obito doesn't damage himself too permanently.

Shisui takes a couple slow sips, looking warily around the room. It isn't dirty, not by any means—just empty, aside from clothes and shoes and what appear to be miniature vodka bottles left in arbitrary places. He's struck with a jolt of recognition, and grimaces. “I'll—”

“Yeah, you're gonna clean up,” Obito says, although there's no real menace in his tone. “You just kept—kept _producing_ them yesterday, it was like a fucking magic show—”

“All right, all right,” Shisui snaps, and immediately regrets speaking above an inside voice, and breathing, and continuing to exist in general. “I get it.”

“Go shower first,” Obito instructs, and pats Shisui on the knee, not all too gently. “Hopefully there's still hot water. Go on, you smell like a Hooters during orientation week in Boston.”

After thinking about it for a minute, Shisui decides he is in no state to parse whatever the fuck Obito just said, although that's true for about half the things that leave his mouth anyway. “What, you tried boiling yourself alive again?” Shisui takes another, bigger sip of water. Good. Very good. He should drink water more often. “How'd that go for you?”

“Uh, great, thanks, I have most of my shitty range of motion back,” Obito replies, rolling his head from side to side. “I think I threw out my back last night or something.”

Shisui blinks slowly, and experimentally swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Your own fault,” he says, and pauses for a minute, because the room is starting to sway a little, and his stomach is still feeling slightly tender. “If you maybe gave half a fuck and took better care of yourself—”

Coffee splashes across the top sheet, and Shisui curses, then half-considers sucking the liquid out of the fabric. He's probably done grosser things in the past, he's thinking, and then suddenly most of the latter half of Saturday comes rushing back in reverse—the awful, silent walk to the outbound platform, the gut churning feeling of _not knowing_ , Itachi putting a hand on the back of his chair and saying 'stop that, you'll break your neck', Itachi standing by the phone etched in disappointment, Itachi silent staring out the window by the sink the warmth of waking up next to someone else an odd sort of pain that he can't put a finger on— “Oh my god,” he says. “He knows.” A fresh wave of nausea rolls through him. “Fuck.”

“Uh, yeah.” Obito speaks slowly, as if Shisui were a very small child. “You were fairly distraught about it.” He takes the glass of water out of Shisui's hand and swaps it with the rest of his coffee. “Please go shower, for chrissake. I am begging you, like, please. Go, like, go do—” He pauses, flapping a hand in the general direction of the bathroom. “Go do whatever you're gonna do, just wash your hands when you're done.”

Shisui is already struggling to his feet, trying to force his body to cooperate. “Fuck off,” he mutters, and ambles off towards the bathroom, dragging the coffee stained sheet with him. “This is the last time!” he calls back half-heartedly, as he crosses the threshold. “I mean it!”

“Whatever you say,” Obito sing-songs from the kitchen. “I bought conditioner, though, your hair looks like a Brillo pad on a _good_ day.”

Shisui turns on the shower and tries to ignore him, pointedly. Instead, he focuses on how gross the mustard yellow tile looks in the daylight, and hopes to god that if he pukes, right here right now, there's no chunks big enough to clog the drain. He does _not_ think about how he misses the weirdest shit, including but not limited to Itachi's weird, abstract hair art on the shower wall.

“Gross,” he says quietly, and he isn't quite sure if he's referring to himself thinking it's—it's _endearing,_ or the concept of abstract hair art in general.

Shisui stands under the water for a solid minute until the water starts to cool, then washes hurriedly. There's still soap in his hair when he gets out, and he grimaces, turning on the sink instead and sticking his head under it. It's oddly quiet, the sound of running water bouncing off the many tiled surfaces. He lets the lukewarm water run through his hair, lets his mind wander, and of course he goes right back to worrying. Will the trains run on time, does he have time to clean up the kitchen before he goes to meet Itachi later today, is that idiot eating properly, what is he telling Fugaku, oh god what if he noticed—

“Shisui!” he hears Obito call from outside the bathroom.

Shisui jumps, slamming his head against the faucet. “Fuck, shit, goddamn, mother—” He hisses in pain, clapping a hand to the back of his head. “What!” he yells back, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.

There's no answer, just a series of suspicious-sounding shuffles, and a grunt that sounds like Obito being slammed into a wall with an extreme amount of prejudice—not that Shisui would know from experience what that sounds like, or anything. Not at all.

“Jesus.” Shisui tries to yank down the towel draped over the shower curtain rod; in a fit of predictability, once he gets a solid hold on it the entire curtain rod comes clattering down. The potted cactus—really, Shisui thinks, a fucking cactus? In a damp bathroom? _Really?—_ is an unfortunate victim of its collapse, and the ceramic planter shatters on the tile floor. “Jesus!” Shisui says, much louder this time, and haphazardly wraps the towel around his waist as he slams through the bathroom door. He's fairly certain he's bleeding from the head and guilty of some kind of petty property damage or possibly destruction of chattels, at the very least.

He rounds the corner into Obito's tiny kitchen-slash-dining room-slash-disaster zone at breakneck speed, skidding a little as his feet search for purchase on the linoleum. “What in god's fucking name is going on here?” he hisses, clutching at his towel. Either water, blood, or a wonderful mixture of the two is dripping down his back, and he sure as fuck isn't about to check.

Obito currently has a scrawny, black-haired teen in a full nelson, and seems to have resorted to the rather low technique of stepping on one of his feet to save himself from getting kicked. “We have a visitor,” Obito huffs out.

“ _You're_ Shisui?” There's no small amount of arrogance in the kid's tone. “God, they have _you_ looking out for my brother?” He snorts indignantly, and it looks like he might have attempted to toss his hair, but Obito's holds are no joke, so he just kind of twitches uncomfortably instead.

Shisui grimaces. The look Obito is giving him over Sasuke's shoulder is not a promising one, nor one that bodes well in the slightest.

“Well,” Obito says casually, and the way he draws out the vowel cannot bode well for anyone, really, “I don't know if looking _out_ for or staring lustfully _at_ is more accurate—”

Sasuke—because it must be Sasuke, because the only other Uchiha anywhere near his age is Izumi, and she has enough class to _not_ break and enter at ungodly hours of the morning—has a rather nonplussed expression cross his face, followed by grim realization. “Oh my god,” he says, and looks a little ill.

“Obito,” Shisui says through gritted teeth, “Please shut the fuck up for once.”

“I thought you liked it when I talked dirty to you—”

“Oh my god.” Sasuke looks more horrified by the second. “Jesus. Oh my god.” His eyes drift down to the rather conspicuous bite Shisui's neck, then the rest of his torso, and finally to the towel and back up again. “Oh my god,” he repeats for a third time.

Obito sighs, rolling his eye. “If I let you go, are you gonna try some more sad vigilante shit on me?” he asks, sounding more exasperated than really threatened. “My arms are getting tired.”

Shisui can see the strain in Obito's face; more than likely he's doing too much with that fucking shoulder right now. “He's definitely into the second stage of shock by now,” Shisui says dryly. “Let him go. He isn't going to do anything.” He tries to look as threatening as possible while mostly naked and bleeding from a head wound, and valiantly ignores the increasingly painful pounding in his head.

Obito sucks in a long breath; he briefly makes eye contact with Shisui before letting Sasuke go. “Suit yourself, then,” he says. “So, baby Uchiha, what's up?” He cracks his neck before moving to open the freezer.

Sasuke stumbles forward at the sudden loss of support; the first thing he does when he regains his footing is turn to glare at Obito. “What do you mean, what's up?” he snaps, and wow. It's a marvel this brat and Itachi are related.

“It's a colloquialism,” Obito says mildly, emerging from the depths of the freezer with a bag of frozen peas and a freezer-burned chicken breast. “You know, like what's up, what's going on, why the fuck did you try to assault me in my own apartment—that type of thing.” He grabs a dish towel from the drainboard and carefully wraps the chicken breast in it before tossing it to Shisui.

Shisui barely manages to catch it, as he realizes while the fowl is midair that he can't use both hands and hold up a towel at the same time. In a remote corner of his mind, he prays for a swift and sudden allergy to poultry, preferably a deadly one. “Thanks,” he says instead, as telling Obito to go fuck himself again would likely just get him more innuendo in return. Gingerly, he holds the frozen chicken to the back of his head. He leans back against the counter and closes his eyes.

Sasuke watches with fascinated disgust. “Is that even sanitary?” he asks, slightly incredulous.

“It'll do,” Shisui says. “There's worse you could use.”

Obito slaps the bag of peas onto his shoulder. “Yeah,” he adds, and Shisui doesn't need to open his eyes to know that Obito is smirking like a motherfucker and definitely cruising to get kicked. “Our Shisui here knows how to appreciate some good cock.”

Shisui just sighs and gathers the last dregs of his patience around him. This is it. All that meditating and mindfulness bullshit has finally paid off. He's finally reached nirvana, and all it took was a potential concussion and some frozen discount supermarket meat. “What do you want, Sasuke?” he forces out. “We can talk now or I can get dressed while you _collect your thoughts_.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sasuke says. Clearly eloquence runs in the family. “How about you get dressed?”

“Good plan.” Shisui forces all the menace left in his body into those two two syllables. “Good plan. I like it.” He opens his eyes just enough to make it through the door and back into Obito's bedroom. He almost pukes again when he bends down to grab his jeans off the floor. “Fuck the Uchiha.” He yanks open one of the dresser drawers and grabbing a shirt and underwear. And socks. Obito hates when he takes his socks, but you know what? Fuck him. Shisui is going to have clean socks, for the love of god. His life might be in shambles but he's gonna have those fucking socks.

He wraps the frozen chicken in his own dirty shirt and holds it to the back of his head again as he shuffles back into the kitchen, feeling rather put-upon. Sasuke has taken up residence of the seat at the little peninsula closest to the front door, which Shisui will admit a grudging respect for. He can't imagine Fugaku having told Sasuke much of anything, but Obito's reputation isn't exactly a well-kept secret. He was a fairly conspicuous person, even before. Shisui frowns, because it makes even less sense that Sasuke would show up _here,_ of all places, and as far as he knows it's biologically impossible for most teenagers to get up before eight in the morning on the weekend, so clearly something must be very wrong. He swallows, throat dry.

“You're gonna get bloodstains on that shirt,” Sasuke offers helpfully.

Shisui sinks into one of the mismatched chairs at the countertop's awkwardly placed island. He prays it's been sanitized in the last week as he leans down to rest his cheek against the cold plastic. “I can get bloodstains out of anything,” he monotones.

“Real husband material,” Obito says from his corner. “Great stuff. He's very talented.” There's a thud as he tosses the bag of peas into the sink.

“Obito, please,” Shisui forces out. “More coffee. And food. The other mug is in pieces on your bathroom floor.” He opens one eye for a second to see Obito looming over him, and hates how familiar that sight is. “You might want to clean that up at some point.”

“I'm going to pretend I heard none of that,” Obito says cheerfully, and plunks a fresh cup of coffee on the table. “I'll just wait until you get tired of looking at it and clean it up yourself out of guilt.” He pats Shisui reassuringly on the shoulder. “I'm sure you'll get around to it eventually.”

“Wow, thanks,” Shisui mumbles. “Food now.” Squinting, he gropes around for the coffee mug, fully aware he looks like a batshit crazy person, although he's fairly sure Sasuke will keep quiet about almost everything, as he likely would lose several limbs if it came out he ever showed up here in the first place.

“This is a lot of familial machinations for first thing in the morning,” Obito remarks to the room. He puts a bowl of dry cheerios in front of Shisui, who is clearly blessed with wonderful and caring friends. “Also, is that my fucking shirt?”

Shisui fights the urge to roll his eyes, mainly because doing so will likely cause more pain than he's willing to endure to annoy Obito. “No, I joined the NYPD just for the fashion.”

“I want it back. Washed.”

Shisui sighs. “You're so exhausting.”

“ _I'm_ exhausting?” Obito leans against the countertop right behind the island, raising an eyebrow at Shisui. “Jesus.”

Sasuke pulls a face somewhere between confused and appalled, although he's valiantly trying to hide it, and honestly? Shisui has to give him some credit. He'd likely have left without a word once Obito had made that first dick joke and directed it at someone who was at least a fourth degree relative. “Sasuke,” Shisui tries, “Why are you here?” He aims for 'good cop' in this scenario, because Obito has never been anything but an absolute pain in the ass when it comes to soft intelligence collection, and will likely be more of a hindrance than anything—subtle he is not. Also, just a little bit, he might be trying to prove that he is calm and level-headed, even while concussed and hungover and eating cheerios out of a bowl with his hands like a toddler—

“Look,” Sasuke says, and his body language changes, becomes all guilt and shame. “I don't want my dad to know I'm here.”

“That's fine,” Obito says, around a mouthful of apple. “I mean, we aren't on speaking terms, really, so it isn't a big thing, but you have to level with me here.” He shifts a little, squaring his shoulders. “What were you looking for _me_ for?”

The answer is _right there_ , Shisui realizes. It's been staring him in the face for most of the last couple weeks. “They're planning something,” he says, before fully registering the words coming out of his mouth. “All of them.”

Sasuke nods, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. Like, don't get me wrong, I—” He makes an aborted gesture, as if he's trying to force out words that won't come. “I know he isn't—I know what my father is, I know what he does.” He fidgets minutely, Shisui notices: a leg beneath the table, a finger tapping the underside of the table. It strikes him that if he hadn't know Itachi, he wouldn't know what to look for. “This just seems—seems _worse_ ,” Sasuke finishes.

“It probably is,” Obito says agreeably. He tosses the apple core into the sink and leans down, resting his elbows on the peninsula across from Sasuke. “You know what your daddy is capable of?” He indicates his face with a finger. “All this? He didn't order it, no, but you know who did?”

“Obito,” Shisui says. It's a warning. “He's a kid.”

Obito snorts. “You saw me nearly die when you were his age.”

Shisui's eyes dart between Sasuke (wide-eyed, fake bravado) and Obito (rough, angry, cold).“Things are different now,” he says quietly, and hopes it is enough to placate.

“Bull _shit_ ,” Obito hisses, and he places his hand very deliberately on the table. “You know that's a lie you're telling yourself.” He jerks his head at Sasuke. “Yourself _and_ him, and maybe Itachi too, unless he's in on it with the rest of them, because you know what?” Obito laughs, and it's the ugly laugh, the one from somewhere between his shoulder blades and sternum, the one Shisui hates. He picks his hand up and pokes the thin skin under Shisui's eye. It's a gentle touch, but that doesn't mean anything. “They'd rip your eyes out in a heartbeat.”

“Why do you think I'm _doing_ this?” Shisui hisses back. He forces himself to bite his tongue, reminds himself that they don't know what Sasuke knows, not really, and can't speak all too freely.

“Honestly?” Obito leans back a little, against the countertop again, and shrugs his good shoulder. “Idealism. You think you're in love with someone completely and totally inaccessible, and you just love playing the white knight.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “I should know.”

Sasuke makes a small grunting noise, and it looks as if he wants to say something more, but to his credit is otherwise silent. Shisui thanks whatever powers that be, because he cannot deal with a teenager at _all_ right now, especially not one whose brother has recently featured in some rather illicit dreams and you know what, he's decided he's never looking anyone in the Uchiha family in the eye again, and he's changing his name to the blandest thing he can think of and moving to the Midwest to like, raise cattle or something. “Look,” he says, jerking himself out of his rapidly accelerating train of thought. “Could you just chill out for like ten seconds?”

Obito sucks in a breath. “You've gotta be fucking kidding me—”

“They're watching you,” Sasuke interjects, and he is remarkably calm about it. He fixes Shisui with a look before continuing. “And frankly I don't give a shit about you, but if you let anything happen to Itachi I'll kill you myself.” He stares meaningfully for a second longer, and it would actually be intimidating if Sasuke was a fully grown adult and not a college student drowning in a robotics team sweatshirt.

“All right,” Shisui says amiably, because there isn't really anything else to say to that, is there? “I'm sure your father would get first dibs, but you're welcome to deface my corpse or something.” He takes another handful of cheerios, and wonders if Obito purposely gave them to him out of annoyance. He would, too. “Want some?” Shisui pushes the bowl in Sasuke's direction

“Uh, no thanks,” Sasuke says warily, eyeing the bowl with not at all subtle suspicion. “I... I ate already.”

Shisui shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He picks the bowl up this time and dumps the rest of the cereal into his mouth. He's fairly sure Sasuke is staring at him in disgust, but he could honestly give less of a fuck at this point. “So,” he adds, after he finishes chewing. “Start wherever.”

Sasuke only looks slightly homicidal, although it could just as easily be a neutral expression. It seems to be an unfortunate heritable trait in the family. “I talk to Itachi, you know,” Sasuke says slowly, as if testing the waters. “I keep in touch with him.”

“Okay, and?” Obito prompts, finally deigning to sit down. “Congrats, you're little brother of the year.”

“Stop being an asshole,” Shisui says absently, flapping a hand in Obito's direction. “Let him finish.” He nods at Sasuke, and he feels like he's playing a role—someone collected and reliable, who does their job and doesn't usually concuss themselves on a faucet handle or have idiotic segues of feeling regarding aspects of their arguably illegal employment. “When was the last time you guys talked?” Shisui is actually a little more concerned than he'd like to admit at this revelation—he'd had no idea that the two were even in contact. He fights back a scowl and forces himself to reconsider getting Obito to put a baby monitor in Itachi's desk at the station.

“On the phone, maybe two weeks ago?” Sasuke looks down at the empty bowl instead of at anyone in particular. “He didn't say all that much, just said he was concerned.” He clears his throat. “I asked how things were going, and he said that someone had—had taken an interest in him.” Sasuke reaches out to run a finger around the edge of the bowl. “I asked if that was a bad thing, and he just repeated it again.”

Shisui swallows, guilt burning in his stomach. He should have acted faster, done something sooner, never agreed to this shit job in the first place— “That's all he said?”

Sasuke nods. His face is hard; voice threaded through with anger. “You're supposed to protect him, asshole,” he snaps, and in moments he's slid out of his chair and paced the length of the tiny kitchen in seconds. “Why didn't _you_ know?”

“I don't know if you've realized, but your brother isn't exactly the most _forthcoming_ person in the world.” Shisui has to lean back a little now, has to move his head to follow Sasuke's movement, and it's enough to make him more than slightly nauseous. “It's pulling teeth just figuring out what he wants to _eat_ , for god's sake. I'd have better luck with a fucking ouija board.” He sighs. “I realized we were being watched around the same time. I didn't want him to panic, so I just—I didn't say anything.”

“I told you that was a bad idea,” Obito interrupts. “I did. You remember?”

Shisui pointedly ignores him and continues speaking. He has gotten very, very good at selectively blocking out Obito's voice. “Do you have any idea what he's said to your father? Who it is?”

Sasuke is in profile, staring at the sad excuse for a refrigerator. “That was your first mistake.” He reaches out to touch a piece of paper affixed to it. His fingers move to another paper, then to toy with a magnet. “The less you tell him the more he panics. He wouldn't let you see it, but he's basically a perpetual anxiety attack.”

“Look, Sasuke, no one gave me a handbook.”

Sasuke snorts, and his hand moves to a photo. The planes of his face change, contracting into a mixture of confusion. “Who's this? She's not family.” He pulls the picture off the fridge, and Shisui knows _exactly_ which picture it is. “Looks a little like Izumi, though.”

“Sasuke—” Honestly, Shisui blames himself, blames himself for somehow getting sloppy enough for Sasuke to have figured this out, for not catching the door quickly enough, for fucking _concussing_ himself, for somehow landing himself in this entire situation to _begin_ with—

“Put it down.” Obito's good hand is clenched around the lip of the counter, knuckles white. “Just put it down.” There's something mutable in his face, something that edges around exactly what the problem is.

“Who was she?” With a picture in one hand and sweatshirt cuff hanging down over the other and a rather perplexed look on his face, Sasuke looks impossibly young. It occurs to Shisui that he might know little to nothing about the family, little to nothing about the technicalities of what they _do_ , beyond ledger books and shell companies and the conspicuous absence of his older brother. “That's you—I mean, you but better-looking, but who is that?”

Shisui raises his voice this time.“Sasuke.”

Sasuke, however, seems to understand that he's caught on to something crucial, something that sets a precedent for every fucking romance this family has to offer. His head whips around, and he stares at Obito instead. He's breathing a little faster, and under the cuffs of his sweatshirt his hands shake. “Who is that?”

“That's none of your fucking business.” Obito hasn't moved at all, just stands next to the counter and the coffee pot and the ugly tile backsplash in some city shoebox, and it's a testament immemorial. “None of your fucking business.”

Shisui tries again, because he can see the connections Sasuke is making—what happens to the people involved in the family, what happens to even the extraneous ones, what happens when you cross the family or the enemies of the family or even just some unlucky stranger on the street or maybe the love of your life, or at least until they leave you— _“Sasuke.”_

“Is she dead?” Sasuke stands there, feet locked to the linoleum; he flips the picture over, scrutinizes the back, flips it over again.

“Just give it to me.” Obito is incredibly still. “You're here about your brother, so focus on your goddamn brother.”

Sasuke isn't stupid; Shisui can see it in the quick movements of his eyes and the micro-assessments he must be making about the rest of the apartment, about little things left here and there that belie something _not right_ , that speak to something gone or lost or twisted, and only part of that is a person. “Sasuke,” Shisui says a third time, and this time Sasuke looks up, looks over at him wide-eyed. He looks his age, and it's a frightening thing. “Just let it be.”

Sasuke presses his lips into a thin line, holds the picture up between two fingers. “The fuck I will.” The implications are easy to read—how can I, when this is what's going to happen to him, when this is the only concrete proof of any sort of happiness—

Obito snorts derisively. “Melodramatic.” In seconds he's reached out, snatched the photograph from Sasuke's hands. “Your brother will be _fine_.” His gaze flicks to Shisui, though, in one small aborted movement. Theres doubt in his face, and it's frightening.

Sasuke says nothing, for a long moment; he seems to sway a little with the breathing of the room, and Shisui thinks about how the higher the skyscraper is built, the more play the beams and girders have to have, the more the building rocks under duress.

“She's alive,” Shisui says, finally, and he can't even remember how they got here, but Sasuke looks frightened and Obito looks homicidal and the throbbing pain in the back of his head is a little too much for right now. “Itachi is going to be fine too, it's all going to be fine—”

“I fail to see how this has any fucking bearing on the situation,” Obito snaps. “I'm not dealing with this bullshit. Just—” He gestures at Sasuke, and his motions are rigid, terse. “You came here for information, not to have some stupid talk about _feelings,_ and—”

“Anyway,” Shisui cuts in, and it's nerve-wracking, the way he can see the emotions starting to curl up, the frightening way Sasuke has seemed to work out in seconds what happens to people who get too near Uchiha, too near the ones who _do_ the bloody things, who wire explosives and do it wrong and kill and then dream about it and fall in love and drive them away—

When Sasuke speaks, it's all in a rush. “He knew you both were being watched.” He looks to the side, looks at the linoleum. He does not look at Obito. “He alluded to thinking it was an outside party, although you'd probably know more about who that might be than me.” There's something accusatory behind his eyes; he glowers at the floor with shocking intensity before looking up. “Or maybe not,” he says, and with the way he speaks it's as if he's biting each word off and spitting it in Obito's face.

“It isn't us.” Obito speaks through a clenched jaw, tight-balled fists. “I would know. It's my _job_ to know.” When he swallows, it's a visible motion. “I get Hatake to look at the ones they keep from me. It isn't us.”

“Would he lie to you?” Sasuke is composed now, and when he speaks it's so clear that he's Fugaku's son it's terrifying.

Obito fixes Shisui with a look, jaw working as if he's trying to chew his insults into more manageable pieces before he spits them in his face. “I have no _reason_ to think he would, unless you know something I don't,” he finally forces out. He does not once look at Sasuke when he speaks.

“Okay,” Shisui says. “Okay. So it's someone outside.” He looks to Obito, and feels the burning in his stomach start again. “I'm sorry,” he adds, more quietly this time. “I'm sure he didn't mean it like that.”

Obito ignores the second part of his question. “I'll look into it,” he says, terse and businesslike. In a stark contrast, Shisui can see his thumb running along the thin edges of the picture, over and over, one side then the next then the next then the next— “By the way, that recording? Brought it to work with me, had our tech guy clean it up a little.” A muscle works in his jaw. “It's your interrogation and witness statement, from when you were brought in.”

Sasuke looks at him askance. “You were brought in? What for?” He vacillates through several expressions—confusion, suspicion, realization. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh,” Shisui says, and suddenly everything seems very far away. “Oh, that's good.” He closes his eyes again wishes he could rest his forehead on the table. “You didn't want to tell me earlier?”

Obito shrugs in response, gaze hard. “You didn't want to tell me you thought you were being watched sooner?” He snorts derisively. “Eye for an eye, princess.”

“I'll talk to you later,” Shisui says abruptly, pushing his chair back. If he doesn't keep his head still he feels like he's going to barf, which would really be the icing on the cake for today. “I'm done here. See you around.” He slaps the partially-thawed chicken onto the table and dutifully ignores Sasuke's wide-eyed gaze, ignores how Obito's stare seems to be fixed somewhere over his shoulder on some imaginary tableau, ignores the ringing in his ears.

“That's it, then?” Sasuke, sounding more than a little hurt. “That's it?”

Shisui shoves the chair back against the table, and if he holds onto the back for balance, no one needs to know. “I guess.”

Sasuke waits until Shisui is at the door, yanking shoes onto his feet. “Don't tell him,” he says, and there's something like realization in his face. “Don't tell him I was here.”

When Shisui looks up at him, in the middle of tying one shoe, the family resemblance is remarkable. “I won't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have any issues? complaints? questions? feel free to [hit me up](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> to address some sentiments: if you're worried about content, I will get there. this is only about a quarter to a third of projected length for the finished product. I'm just a sucker for setting up every little thing in-universe first. anyway, thank you for the continued readership, and I hope you all enjoy.


	10. outbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter contains: plot! mentions of substances in passing, although not in terribly graphic terms! pork roll versus taylor ham discourse! everyone hates new jersey! shisui stares at itachi like a lot and Makes It Weird but Not!

Shisui finally throws up in the public bathroom at Penn Station, and honestly, it's a relief. He isn't quite sure if it's from hitting his head or drinking or general disgust with his life and general choices or a combination thereof, but it's embarrassing any which way.

He elbows the stall door open and leans against the sink, studying his reflection critically. He grimaces, stares disapprovingly into the mirror for all of ten seconds before deciding enough is enough in regard to feeling sorry for himself.

As he's hastily trying to get enough water into his cupped hands to last to his mouth, Shisui makes a valiant effort to avoid considering what's actually _in_ the water here, and does a damn good job of it, too. He braces against the damp counter and spits, and gets one last glance at himself before leaving. It's unnerving. As he stands there, he decides he doesn't like it in the slightest.

An automated voice burbles over the loudspeaker, announcing the most recent arrivals as he pushes back out into the general chaos of the station. Shisui elbows through the crowd to the outbound tracks, where he and Itachi had agreed to meet when he'd dropped him off here Sunday morning.

Shisui settles himself against the wall by the ticket machines, watching the crowd and worrying. It hadn't felt right, even as he'd watched Itachi board the train. There was nothing _wrong_ , per se, but letting him go home had felt odd, like _trying_ to give yourself a paper cut. There was the shiver of anticipation, the instinctual pause, but ultimately—ultimately, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

His eyes travel to the analog clock mounted on the wall across the two sets of tracks—eleven fifty-five. Shisui shoves his hands into his pockets and tells himself that nothing is wrong, not yet. He watches the people pass by instead; the babble and crush of so much humanity in so little a space is underlaid by the spatter of rain on the translucent roofing overhead, and it would be calming if it weren't for the fact that Itachi is almost never late.

Shisui begins to chew on the inside of his cheek. He could never have left the house, or he could have been followed onto the train, or he could have been cornered in the station. He reprimands himself mentally for allowing anything like this to potentially have happened, because he should have been _at_ the platform when the fucking train had pulled in, waiting, like he was _supposed_ to—

“Shisui?”

“Uh.” Shisui swears to god and high heaven that his tongue is probably a size too big for his mouth, or he's having an allergic reaction to his own stupidity and asphyxiating on a potent cocktail of regret and embarrassment. “Yeah, sorry,” he rushes out. “I was waiting for you.” I was worried, he wants to say, because you wouldn't take a threat seriously if it hit you between the eyes.

Itachi hitches a knapsack up onto his shoulder. “I can see that,” he replies, and his voice is almost lost in the background noise. His gaze slides up to Shisui's face, and his expression tightens.

Shisui pushes himself away from the wall and extends a hand in the direction of the stairs—they go under the tracks and on to the next platform. “After you.” It is eleven fifty-eight. “How was it?” It's a fraught question at best, and

Itachi stares at him a moment longer, as if he is about to say something completely out of the ordinary, before sighing and starting down the stairs. “Fine,” he says tersely. “Mother inquired as to your well-being.”

“Oh, that was nice of her.” Shisui follows him, and looks left and right and left again until the nausea makes a startling recurrence, and he eventually settles on just focusing on the back of Itachi's head instead. A distant part of him notes that his hair is in a loose ponytail today instead of the bun, and it definitely looks very nice on him. Shisui silently instructs said distant part of him to shut the fuck up and focus on not falling over. “How are they?”

The tunnel beneath the tracks is eerily quiet compared to the rest of the station, and their footfalls echo in the murky yellow light. Shisui falls into step just half a foot behind Itachi—close enough to intervene, but far enough away as to avoid any incongruous conclusions that might be drawn. Mostly by himself, of course, but it's the fact of the matter. The principle of the thing. He remembers what it felt like to hold a bag of groceries in one arm and Itachi in the other, and there's a pang in his chest unrelated to the nausea that likely will not go away, no matter how many times he throws up.

“Fine,” Itachi repeats. It seems to be his default answer. “My mother worries, but she always worries.” He does not look to the side, does not falter, just keeps walking—shoulders straight, eyes steadily scanning the ground in front of him. Shisui thinks it doesn't fit, for him to look so much like a soldier. It feels wrong. “Fugaku is as always.”

Shisui wants to scream, because that could mean any number of things, and it leaves him no easy response. Of course, he thinks, why would there be one? 'Hey, sorry to disappoint you and your freakish level of familial piety, but I'm trying to help you get the fuck out, and you're really not making it easy for me' isn't exactly something he can slip into casual conversation. “That's—that's good,” Shisui forces out, and it sounds like he's being strangled. God, he could only hope.

Itachi's head turns just enough that Shisui can see him in profile, something bright and striking in the dim underground. “Is it?” he asks, and there's a timid kind of resentment there.

Shisui says nothing to that, and they begin to climb the stairs at the other end of the tunnel. He speeds up a little to go up the stairs first.

Itachi gives him a look.

“Safer,” Shisui blurts out. “In case, just in case, you know—” He flaps a hand aimlessly. “There are people up there.” He climbs the stairs with a vengeance, and resolves right then and there he will never be caught dead ogling _anyone_. He was raised _right_ , for god's sake, and he continues to remind himself of this while he ignores the increasingly tangential directions of his thoughts.

When they reemerge on the far side, it is eleven fifty-nine. The outbound side of the platform is far less crowded, and the people milling about allow for a sense of distance from the rest of the world, from the set of abstract concepts that have governed his life for the past eight years. Shisui steers them towards the end of the platform, away from the knots of people coagulating along its concrete length. Itachi's bearing relaxes incrementally the further away they move, and Shisui lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. This is fine. This is okay. He can do this.

“How are you, though?” Shisui looks over at Itachi once, and then begins examining a thread hanging from the cuff of his jacket. “Doing all right?” It's terrible, because he feels like he's starting from square one all over again, and the weeks of—weeks of not easy, but easier—conversation and casual touch are gone, erased by his own lack of common sense.

Itachi clears his throat once, twice. “I'm doing fine, Shisui,” he answers patiently, as if Shisui is a small child who has asked him the same inane question five times in a row. “I could ask the same of you, though.” He looks at Shisui this time, really looks—it's the look that got him the first time, all analysis and introspection and deduction rolled into one terrible thing that makes his chest hurt all over again.

It is definitely stupid and definitely shallow, but Shisui didn't think it was possible to look good in shitty train station lighting until now. “Me? Yeah.” He looks down, and up, and down again. Inspecting his hands, stray threads, tiny rips—altogether a much safer option. “Yeah, I'm good. Didn't get as much done around the apartment as I wanted, but, you know.” He pauses, glancing at the clock. “It happens.” Shisui shrugs, tacking a grin on the end for good measure. “Hey,” he adds, gesturing to the bag hanging off Itachi's shoulder. “Want me to take that?”

Itachi presses his lips into a thin line and looks away again. He says something, too, something just inaudible enough to be lost in the ambient noise.

“What?” Shisui takes half a step forward.

“You look terrible,” Itachi says, and this time it's loud and sharp and painful. His eyes flick down to Shisui's chest, and something in his posture changes again. “That isn't even your shirt.”

“Yeah, well, I'm hoping one of your father's friends sees me and just shoots me on sight,” Shisui snaps back without thinking, and immediately wants to lay down on the floor and cease to exist. He now knows what it feels like to experience a car wreck in slow motion, repeatedly.

Itachi looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. Shisui has come to identify this particular expression as exasperation, not anger, which is potentially... Potentially not terrible.

He bounces in place for a second before responding. “I'm sorry,” Shisui says, and he would rather be literally anywhere else right now. Even back in Obito's apartment with Sasuke walking in and seeing him in a towel. Literally anywhere else. “I'm sorry,” he repeats, and sighs. “I shouldn't have—”

“It's fine,” Itachi interrupts. “I should have known better than to ask.” He turns a little and looks down the tracks, peering into the distance. Shisui pointedly reminds himself that this is not attractive to him, not in the slightest. “That's us,” he adds, matter-of-fact.

“Yeah,” Shisui answers, without thinking too much. “Give me your bag.”

The train whistles in the distance, and grows steadily louder; the automated voice kindly reminds everyone to step back from the yellow line, repeatedly. It really only encourages the very daring to step up to toe it and look proudly at the security officers, and perhaps expect a congratulations for not actually _crossing_ it.

“Why?” Itachi asks, and taps Shisui's arm. “They said step _back._ ”

“Because I want to?” Shisui says, although it's more of a shot in the dark. “Just let me, okay?” He scoffs a little, and reaches over to tug the bag off Itachi's shoulder anyway.

Itachi just sighs, and seems to accept that it is easier to allow than to argue, and for a split second—and it might be just a trick of the light and remnential alcohol-induced delusions—it's as if they are friends, or at least voluntary acquaintances.

Shisui wants to slap himself for being a moron. He's really setting the bar high here, he thinks, as he ducks into the dry warmth of the train car. Wonderful. Great. Peachy. “Over here.” He motions Itachi into the first set of seats, with a clear line of sight to the exit. “I'll even let you have the one by the window,” he jokes, and flops unceremoniously into the hideously patterned aisle seat.

“Right,” Itachi replies mildly, examining his hands with great interest. “I'd hate to miss out on seeing the landfills.” There's a remote edge to his tone, as if something has bothered him just enough to require action, but not enough to explicitly verbalize it and, you know, resolve it.

“New Jersey _is_ a landfill,” Shisui says, off-handed. “I miss the city.” He bounces his leg, thinking, planning, trying to figure it all out—it doesn't help that he has a distraction tailor-made to basically everything he could possibly want right next to him in seat 4E, and making quite a point in giving him the cold shoulder.

Itachi coughs, and then clears his throat again. “You're ten minutes away from it,” he says, and crosses his arms across his chest. There's a tension there that Shisui cannot quite put his finger on, and it frustrates him—he had been doing so well at interpreting however it is that Itachi expresses emotion, and vaguely considers resorting to sign language or some form of interpretive dance to get his point across.

Shisui shrugs, readjusting the backpack on his lap. “So?” He leans forward and rests his head on it, still watching the end of the car and definitely not his cousin reflected in the window across the aisle from theirs. “I'm still allowed to miss it,” he mumbles. But he doesn't, not really, he thinks. Not in the ways that matter. The version of himself that lived over the bridge and walked the city's grid was different, rougher, more prone to bouts of spontaneous combustion than, say, making plans to replace the blinds in his bedroom, or ripping out that fucking carpet. He sighs. If he doesn't do it soon he'll _definitely_ puke, stone cold sober.

The train trundles onwards, over the bridge and past the aforementioned landfills; almost no one in the train car looks out the window. It's old land, dead land. There are at least six bodies buried there that he knows about, and likely many more that he does not. He keeps his head down, looks at the door, the petri dish of a carpet, the glowing red exit sign on the wall near the door. He does not look out the window.

They sit in the quiet buzz of electric lights and other people, isolated; Shisui can hear Itachi shift next to him twice in the seven minutes between boarding and the announcement of the next stop over the intercom, and it's more than enough to set him on edge. _More_ on edge, to be completely accurate.

After the blasé recorded voice disappears with an impersonal _ding_ , he decides he can't take it any more, and if he has to walk the six blocks back to their— _his,_ he reminds himself firmly—apartment with mute disapproval embodied the entire way, he's going to lose his shit. “Look,” Shisui says, and he tries his hardest to keep the frustration out of his voice. It's different than when Obito is pissed with him; he can't snap, can't be sarcastic, can't say the first stupid thing that comes into his head and have it all brushed off later as 'what, you're still thinking about that?'. He has to _think_ before he talks. “Did I do something to make you upset?” He sits up straight and looks over at Itachi.

Appraising his facial expression is literally zero help. “I'm not upset.” Itachi's tone is careful and measured. He is perfectly composed, as he very nearly always is. Absently, Shisui thinks he prefers the anger to this, but he's always been that way. Everything in his life thus far has been based around 'how quickly can you get it over with', because there was never _time_ for anything else.

Shisui starts to chew the inside of his cheek again. “Are you sure about that?”

The train begins to grind to a slow stop. It is eight minutes past twelve.

Itachi takes a breath, slow, and lets it go again. “I haven't seen you for a day and a half. Why would I be angry with you?” It's then and only then that Itachi glances over at him, and Shisui imagines that it's the same way he looks at periodical law reviews. “Did you _do_ something?” He jerks forward a little as the train comes to a complete stop, but he keeps what Shisui has termed 'the lawyer look' turned on him in full force.

“Nope,” Shisui chokes out, and he is absolutely not mentally assaulted by the events of the last thirty-six hours, no. Not at all. He definitely doesn't relive everything in technicolor—first the drinking, then the sex, then somehow managing to concuss himself, then _Sasuke—_ and he doesn't grimace. No, not even a little. “I didn't do anything, really. Nothing too eventful, just. Hung out.” He stands again, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I'm pretty boring, actually.” He hopes it's convincing.

For an incredibly humiliating second, Itachi stares pointedly at the part of the bruise blooming above his shirt collar. “How do you define eventful?” he asks as he follows Shisui out onto the platform, and his tone is deceptively mild. It doesn't seem like the sort of question that requires an answer.

“Uh, I don't know.” Shisui slips between people passing on either side of them, walking quickly. He just wants to be _home_. “People hanging around outside my apartment, people trying to kill me, people trying to kill _you—_ ”

Itachi snags the sleeve of his coat. “Not _here_ ,” he hisses, and suddenly he's right next to Shisui instead of a second and a half behind, something indeterminate pulling his face to worry. “That's not funny,” he adds, after a moment's thought.

“All right, all right,” Shisui says, begrudingly. “Got it.”

The rest of the walk home is in silence, punctuated by the scintillating sounds of breathing and footsteps and the occasional cough. Shisui does not look over his shoulder every five seconds, no, not at all. He does not nearly jump out of his skin every time Itachi coughs, either, which averages out at once every six to seven minutes, eight at the outside. It's not as if he's counted, either.

It isn't until they are climbing the wooden steps back up to the apartment door that Itachi sees fit to break the silence. “I meant it,” he says, slightly out of breath.

“Meant what?” Shisui clambers up the last couple steps to the door and unlocks it, and nearly shits himself when he realizes he never actually deadbolted it. He can't quite remember the exact chain of events leading up to him _leaving_ , but that's completely fine because he totally has his life together, and he can probably just ask Obito later, although Obito will just make Concerned Citizen faces and bad jokes at his expense—

“You look terrible,” Itachi says, matter-of-fact. “Did you sleep at _all_?”

“I'm more than capable of continuing to do what I was hired to do.” Shisui pushes the door open with his shoulder. “Please don't worry about that.” It's very very hard to be detached, Shisui reflects, when every other minute his brain goes off on either an idealistic or decidedly inappropriate tangent, and—here he shrinks away a little on the inside—he's definitely gotten laid since, which means it isn't just physical, which is somehow _worse—_

Itachi just stares at him for a second before moving. “You manage to talk without saying anything,” he mutters, and brushes past Shisui on his way in. Shisui absolutely does _not_ watch him walk, because he isn't a fucking creep, thanks. He is a responsible adult and behaves as such most days. Every day, in fact.

Shisui sighs, shutting the door behind him. He sets the backpack on the kitchen counter and locks the door, and then promptly throws himself over the back of the loveseat into a comfortable mess of blankets. “Thanks. I love being complimented,” he says to the ceiling. He can hear Itachi moving around in the kitchen, someone upstairs running water or flushing a toilet. Normal sounds. Nice sounds. “But really, don't worry.”

“You're going to hurt yourself or damage the furniture,” Itachi says, although his voice is fainter now. It sounds as if he's making tea, or coffee; Shisui can hear the _click-click-click_ of the igniter for the stove's gas burners, and absently wonders when the last time he actually cooked was. He imagines the host of freezer-burnt leftovers in his possession and sighs again, louder. He does, however, _save_ the leftovers in the first place, so that in and of itself makes him an adult. At least, he tells himself that much on a bi-weekly basis.

“It's my furniture,” Shisui says, mostly to himself. “I can break it if I want to.” Or just hibernate on it, more likely. The couch is definitely too short and definitely a little lumpier than he would like, but it's still much more comfortable than sleeping somewhere that isn't _his space._ He yanks the blanket off the back of the couch and throws it carelessly over himself. “You need to go out for anything else?” he calls over to Itachi, desperately praying that he says no. God, if he could potentially hibernate for a couple months and wake up to a nuclear wasteland, he'd be thrilled.

“No, I'm all right,” Itachi says mildly, and he is very close by—right by the couch, in fact, and Shisui makes the executive decision that he does not give a shit, and closes his eyes anyway.

“Mhm. Good,” he mumbles, and pulls the hood of his jacket down over his eyes.

There is an irritated huff from somewhere to his left. “You are aware you have a bed, yes?” There are a couple papers rustling—Shisui reimagines Friday night, Itachi sitting at his kitchen table with a stupid bun and stupid pen on his face and stupid comments that should absolutely not affect a grown-ass _adult_ , because he's considered himself an adult since his father died, and doesn't intend to stop now— “Yeah, I know,” Shisui says, and it comes out mushy, like he has a mouth full of oatmeal. “Fine here.”

“You're impossible,” Itachi replies, but it isn't overly harsh; it's more matter-of-fact, as if he's noting that the sky is blue, or that everyone with a New York license plate is a shit driver, or that it's definitely pork roll and Taylor ham is a brand name _of_ pork roll. Facts of the world. “How'd you live this long?”

Shisui frowns, slightly perturbed, but he can't quite force himself to sit up. Or open his eyes. _Speaking_ is currently a struggle, as ninety percent of his problems have been caused by his big mouth. “Has anyone ever told you that you're really bad with people?” he asks, a little put out.

There's the sound of another page turning, and then a cough. “Not recently,” Itachi admits. “I can predict fairly accurately when they're thinking it, though.”

“Of course you can,” Shisui mutters, and throws an arm over his face. It isn't _bright_ , really, but it's the kind of overcast where the hidden sunlight reflects off the clouds and makes it a brighter value of gray. “Why would I expect anything else?”

“I really don't know,” Itachi answers, and there's a hint of dark amusement in his voice. “You tell me. I don't know anything, remember?”

Shisui forces himself into a sitting position, at this; there's an undercurrent of unease moving through him, and he can't tell if it's indicating that something bad is going to happen or letting him know to find a toilet, because he's definitely going to puke again. “What do you mean?” he asks, and tries his damndest not to sound too interested. He slings both arms over the back of the loveseat and rests his head on the back, hanging there like an overgrown lemur.

Itachi moves carefully through the kitchen, from the cabinet to the sink to the stove, as if he's lived here for time measured in months, years—not weeks. “I've said it many times, Shisui,” he says patiently. “I'm well aware of what's going on with the family. I may not know specifics, but please.” He pauses, reaches up into the cabinet over the stove for the honey— “Don't underestimate me.”

Shisui doesn't. He's fairly certain that Itachi would kill someone if they threatened him, and if he were given adequate training. It is with a sinking sensation that he realizes that he really knows very little about Itachi aside from where he went to school, his family, and how he chooses to present himself to Shisui. “Do you want to?” Shisui asks, before he can stop himself. Foot in mouth, he thinks. Foot in mouth. He considers patenting a heart monitor that beeps when he is somehow impaired—drugs, drinking, lack of sleep—and just tazes him into oblivion before he does anything he regrets. “Know anything, I mean,” he adds sheepishly, and then fights back a yawn.

“Several things.” Itachi looks rather solemn.

Shisui stares back at him for several seconds, just observing. He thinks back to Friday, back to his admittance that none of this was anything that he'd grown up _wanting_ for himself—and Itachi sitting there at the foot of his bed, staring back at him, saying 'well, that's universal, then,', and honestly, what the fuck is he supposed to do with that? What do you _say_ to that? “I saw your brother today,” is what comes out, and he leaves out the part where Sasuke _also_ saw him mostly naked and bleeding from the head. He figures that won't be great for interpersonal relations.

He watches as Itachi's head whips around. “When?” He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Shisui's face. “Where did you see him?” There's a thinly veiled urgency in his tone that Shisui hasn't heard but twice—once, when Itachi had not realized he had to turn on the light switch that seemingly does nothing to get the coffee maker to turn on, and a second time, three nights ago, when he had seen someone outside the apartment. “He's supposed to be at school,” Itachi says, and it's a little less composed than usual, a little more snappish. “School. Learning. Not _here._ ”

Shisui continues to question the self-preservation instincts of almost every Uchiha alive, and reminds himself to ask about that living will at a later date. “He was at Obito's earlier.” He stares steadily at the peeling cabinet paneling directly to the left of Itachi's head as he speaks, and hopes no one notices. “Funny thing was he wasn't looking for me, either.”

“Why?” Itachi demands, and there's definitely, definitely something wrong. The undercurrent in his tone is bordering on frantic, and he's clenching a dishtowel in his fist more tightly than any innocent kitchen linen has ever deserved.

“I honestly don't know,” Shisui says, and holds up a hand, placating. “He did threaten to kill me if anything happened to you, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Jesus,” Itachi says, and he honest to god rolls his eyes. It's enough to make Shisui fall in love just a little more, because he looks approachable. He looks human. He looks like Shisui could actually walk up to him and touch him, touch his face, his neck, his shoulder, run a hand through his hair, say 'it'll all be fine, I promise you'— “Were you going to tell me?” Itachi's tone tightly controlled, although there's something forcing itself to the surface. It's reminiscent of the way you have to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze to get a splinter out, or gravel in a cut.

Shisui gives up on not looking, because his brain seems to think it was born to look at completely and utterly socially inept cousins. “I was, actually.” He shifts a little, rolling his shoulders, getting to his feet. If he's going to argue and lose, he will at least _stand_ for it. And he's going to lose. “I didn't want to mention it, you know, outside, or in a public place—”

Itachi gives a minute shake of the head, likely in disapproval or frustration. He seems to decide that this discussion is no longer worth his time, and returns his attention to the stove in front of him.

Leaning a hip against the kitchen doorway, Shisui stops and just watches. It's soothing, for some reason, and that probably isn't healthy, but he isn't—overall—the most matriculated person in the world—just the most well-socialized Uchiha, probably. He reaches up and opens the corner cabinet, and slides the box of teabags across the counter. “Here.” It's a peace offering, an 'I won't do this forever' that he feels needs to be said, although no one ever really asked.

“Thank you,” Itachi says, although he's inspecting the water in the pot much more carefully than necessary.

“It's boiling,” Shisui points out, and really, he's just trying to be helpful. That dishtowel is also dangerously close to the burner, and he really, really doesn't want a repeat of two weeks ago, where he tried to reheat cold coffee in a pot over the stove while hungover and nearly caused a house fire.

Itachi narrows his eyes. “I am well aware,” he says, and finally moves to turn off the water. “Why don't you have some?”

With the amount of intimidatory force compressed into those five syllables, Shisui concludes that this is not in any way a question, and is more of a mandatory request. “Uh, sure.” He's a little afraid to find out what might happen should he refuse, quite honestly.

Shisui moves through the cramped kitchen, pulls two mugs from the drain by the sink and sets them on the counter near the stove with a sense of finality. It's still drizzling, and there is still a sense of unease that pervades the apartment; he's loath to stand near the window for too long, because he's always a little afraid of what he'll see if he looks out. It's like getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he thinks, and yanking open the shower curtain just to be safe, just to make sure no one's in there. “Here.” He thinks that the only difference between the present and twenty years ago is that he's afraid of people now, not ghosts.

Itachi takes them wordlessly, and sets to pouring tea. He turns, slowly, as if he's balanced on a ledge, and sets them both on the tiny kitchen table. “It's cold,” he says quietly. “Tea will help.”

The light is cool and watery, and the rain makes everything outside seem very far away. “They don't really turn the heat on until, like, late October,” Shisui adds, as a way of making conversation. “Sorry about that.” He leans back against the countertop—no way in hell is he going to sit again, put himself across the table from Itachi and square up as if they're about to argue again. In fact, he'd like to avoid that, if possible, because continually pissing someone off doesn't seem to be the best way to go about befriending them.

“You can't control the weather.” Itachi does sit sideways on the chair, and leans his head against the back. It looks awfully uncomfortable.

“Do you want to go sit in the living room?” Shisui suggests, and again the sense of purposeless worry washes over him. There is something not-quite-right, although he isn't entirely sure what, and it's infuriating enough that he would give up a hand or an eye for some kind of premonitive sight.

“Who are you really working for?” Itachi asks, ignoring him completely. His eyes bore into Shisui, cold and analytical. It serves as a reminder, that maybe—just maybe—Obito was right, he's wasting his time, this is all an elaborate plot to trip him up, catch him unawares, that maybe the family knows what he's been doing—

“Your father,” Shisui answers smoothly, without a pause. “And by extension, whoever he answers to.” He sips at the tea and burns a layer of skin off his mouth. “Fuck if I know,” he adds, wincing a little.

“Wrong.” There's no hesitation, no second thoughts to it. “Who are you working for?” He tilts his head to the side a little, and Shisui vaguely wonders if Fugaku realizes exactly how effective his eldest would be in interrogative situations _outside_ a courtroom. God, one look like that and Shisui would absolutely spill his guts, but there is a very good chance Shisui himself is an outlier, as most rational persons are not in any way turned on by danger or the prospect of potentially being killed because of some ill-chosen infatuation.

“Ah,” Shisui says, mainly to buy some time and to try to compose his thoughts. As usual, his traitor brain has now decided to start pointing out the multiple reasons why he should be attempting to woo this individual before any and all other potential duties might be accomplished. “Uh, the state?”

Itachi's eyes narrow, and it's highly intimidating. It should definitely not be attractive. On the positive side, Shisui can definitely confirm that the trademark lack of self preservation and stupid decisions found in most Uchiha are both definitely real, because he is absolutely head over heels. “Could you be a little more specific?” Itachi asks sharply.

“Is this your court face?” Shisui asks, and immediately regrets it. He tells himself he is not a little bitch, and forces himself to stare right back and not squeeze the mug until it breaks, as he's fairly certain he's already broken his quota of crockery for the day. T

Itachi just stares at him and repeats himself. “Could you be a little more specific?”

Shisui sucks in a breath and then lets it go, slowly. Honestly, he should have known this was coming. “Of course,” he says tightly. “I assume all of this stays here?” He isn't going to say that he shifts to block the door, but he does—he would never _hurt_ Itachi, that would be antithetical to the entire _point_ of all this shit—but he isn't above intimidation for his own good.

“Absolutely.” The tension is just as evident in Itachi's neck and shoulders and the line of his jaw; he imagines them as mirror images, fraternal reflections. What might have happened, what could potentially be, if they could only get _out_ of here—

And Shisui has absolutely no reason to believe him. He really doesn't, aside from his stupid gut feelings, which have always been _super duper reliable._ “They got me,” Shisui finally says, and it feels like something hooked into his skin is dragging, crawling down the back of his neck and digging in to his arms. It doesn't want to leave. “I was arrested four years ago.”

“But never indicted, I saw,” Itachi says, and his tone is still short, terse. “There isn't much on you downtown, but that was in there. For what, trespassing and—”

“And possession? Yeah,” Shisui says, and he looks back down into the mug in his hand. It's green tea, and he can see the little particles from the teabag floating around on the bottom of the cup. He would make a face, but the situation seems precarious enough as is, and now doesn't seem to be the time to debate beverage preference, or vocalize his extreme hatred for green tea.

“With intent to distribute.”

Clearly, he's looked into things. “Uh, if it helps, I wasn't actually intending to distribute,” Shisui says wryly. No, he just had enough pharmaceutical-grade painkiller on him to tranquilize an elephant, and he _wasn't_ sharing. Goody goody, he thinks.

Itachi's eyes widen mid-sip. It should definitely not be endearing, but it is. “Is that supposed to be comforting?” he asks, before waving a hand at Shisui. “No, don't answer that. Keep going.”

“Uh, they cuffed me and threw me in a squad car?” Shisui shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks down again. It's been a while since he felt shame. “If you want all the gory details I can give them to you, but I don't really see the point in that.”

Itachi seems to soften a little, and it's the closest Shisui has ever seen him to sympathetic. “All right.” He coughs, briefly. “Why don't you sit.” He nods at the chair across from him.

“I'm good, thanks,” Shisui answers quickly, and he drinks some tea instead, just to have something to do with his hands. He immediately regrets it, because who the fuck decided to make it taste like dirt. Literal dirt. He's eaten his fair share of dirt, he should know. “So, they brought me, you know, to the station, and—” It had been this time of year, too. Maybe a little earlier, maybe late August, earlier in September than now. Far enough on in the season that nights weren't _cold,_ per se, but then why did he remember clammy palms, cold sweat breaking out, throwing up in a storm drain—

“Sit down, Shisui,” Itachi repeats, and no, that's definitely concern. Which, holy shit, he's showing emotion, a distant portion of Shisui's brain announces. How fabulous. It strikes him how very reminiscent this is of their exchange a couple days ago, of he himself _begging_ Itachi to just _sit the fuck down, please, for the love of god—_

“Okay, but not here.” Shisui glances over at the clock on the counter—around one thirty or so. Not too bad. He still has time to do the carpet if he gets his shit together. “Living room.” He manages to leave his mug on the counter before crossing the four feet back to the loveseat. He flops down unceremoniously and pulls himself into a cross-legged position.

Itachi follows him, albeit somewhat reluctantly, tea clutched firmly in hand. He settles onto the other end of the couch, gingerly, as if he's afraid it'll give way. He raises an eyebrow at Shisui, and is it terrible that Shisui can definitively identify that expression as 'Shisui, why?', one that he's become highly familiar with?

“Change of venue,” he says, by way of answer. “The kitchen creeps me out now.” He pulls at a thread coming loose from the armrest, and ignores the fact that there's maybe a foot and a half of space between his knee and where Itachi's hand rests on his leg. Granted, it's holding a mug, but still. Let a guy dream. “I haven't been alone in here since you left.”

“Rather avoidant of you.”

Shisui shrugs. “I'm probably the one who led whoever the fuck back here in the first place.” He chances a look over at Itachi. He just looks very, very tired, more so than usual. “It just felt weird, being here alone.” He regrets saying it the instant the words leave his mouth. “I mean,” he adds quickly, “You'll be here to call the cops if someone busts in and kills me.”

Itachi's lips quirk. “And what, get Obito?” The smile spreads across his face, and Shisui loses anywhere between five and ten IQ points.

“Hm, yeah,” Shisui says, pretending to think for a second. “I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear from you.”

Itachi's gaze slides down to Shisui's neck, to the mark he _knows_ is still there and the shirt he probably should have changed out of by now. Shisui pretends not to notice. “I'm sure he would be,” Itachi says slowly. He is holding the mug rather tightly.

“Anyway,” Shisui continues, “Me, getting arrested, being a general public nuisance—”

“Public nuisances are usually _less_ disruptive than you,” Itachi says, rather quietly. “So, they arrested you and brought you to the station. Holding cell or interrogation?”

“I was in a cell for maybe an hour or two?” Shisui says hesitantly. “It's...” He trails off, leaning back onto the arm of the couch. “Such a blur.” He grins, flopping backwards; looking at the door upside-down seems as worthy a thing to do as any. “I just can't remember, it seems.” He means it humorously, but unfortunately, it's true; there are holes in his memory big enough to drive a semi through, and he berates himself for it, for being so stupid, usually on a bi-weekly basis.

There is definitely a rather exasperated sigh from the other end of the loveseat. “Shisui,” Itachi says, and there's definitely a warning in his tone. “Shisui, please sit up.”

“They moved me to an interrogation room eventually.” Shisui does not move. “Honestly, it really _is_ kind of all blurry.” He reminds himself to breathe in, and then breathe out again. “Obito thinks that's what you heard,” he adds, after a moment. “On the phone. Someone knows, clearly, and they want me to know that _they_ know.” He picks his head up to look at Itachi. God he looks good, and god, he really shouldn't be thinking anything impure again ever, but then again, if he's already damned it probably won't matter.

“Obito knows, then,” Itachi says, and he doesn't seem altogether pleased with that development. “How much does he know?”

Shisui sits back up, pressing an elbow into the lumpy back of the sofa. “He was there, Itachi,” he says quietly. “They called him in. Maybe wanted something from him, I don't know, because—” He cuts himself off, but the rest of the answer is _there_ (because you can't really get _out_ of a family like that without ending up beholden to someone for the favor).

Itachi nods, but says nothing; here are tiny pieces of hair escaping his ponytail and falling around his face, and it's bizarre because how can someone so _infuriating_ seem so approachable, and jesus fucking christ Shisui is definitely going to just die or something because this is getting a little out of hand, and at this point eternal oblivion just seems like less of a hassle. “Why do you think he would leave?”

Shisui smiles wryly, and motions to half his face. “You know. Got blown up a little bit. I'd ditch too.”

“A little bit.” Itachi presses his lips into a thin line. “An officer of the law now.”

Shrugging, Shisui kicks his shoes off and tucks a knee up under his chin. “I wasn't sure what to think. I saw him get blown up, and then he was around for a while after he got out of the hospital, and then he wasn't. Renounced the Uchiha, though.” He chances another look at Itachi. “Made that pretty clear.”

“I was more under the impression they renounced him.” Itachi avoids his eyes. “My father made his feelings on your friend very clear.” The way he says 'friend' is similar to the way other people might say 'virus', or 'property tax'.

“Well, he found me.” Shisui looks down, and starts to scrape his nails along the fabric of the couch cushions. “Lost his shit, kind of. Got really mad at me, then mad at the family, then mad at me again, then mad at the _arresting officer—”_

“Who was it?” Itachi interrupts. “The arresting officer, do you remember anything? Names, faces?” He leans closer, just slightly, searching Shisui's face for something that must not be there after all—

Shisui holds his gaze steadily. “Nothing,” he says. “Honestly. Nothing.” And the worst part is that it's true—he remembers so little of it, and what he does still retain is flashes, lit by floodlights, streetlights, fluorescent back rooms and one way mirrors, and suddenly Obito appearing out of nowhere, saying it's okay, Shisui, it's okay, I found you, I'll get you out, stay with me and Rin, it'll be fine, except—except— “It didn't go the way it was supposed to.”

Itachi's eyes slide over Shisui again, and he feels oddly exposed. “What do you mean?”

“He vouched for me.” It hurts to think about, hurts to recall all of it.

“Vouched for you?” Itachi asks, and he leans down to set the now-empty mug on the floor next to the couch. “To who?”

Shisui pauses, for a long moment. “Danzo.” It feels like a point of no return. “He runs their undercover ops, coordinates who's where and when, and who knows about it.” He swallows, and there's definitely something earlier that isn't agreeing with him. Maybe coffee, or dry cheerios, or experiencing Obito at an ungodly hour of the morning. Any of the above would have done it. “Obito asked if there was anything he could do for me, and—”

Understanding dawns on Itachi's face. “I assumed as much,” he says shortly. “You turn on the family, you help Danzo, and he gets you out.” He chews on the inside of his cheek, lost in thought.

Shisui watches him, and this time he isn't subtle. “You can't judge me.” He feels very far away, and there's definitely someone else talking in his voice because it hasn't shaken like this since he found out Kagami had died— “Not for this.”

“I'm not,” Itachi says slowly, and there's a set of tiny furrows between his eyebrows. Shisui wants to reach up and rub them away, but he doesn't really think he can move that much.

“You.” Shisui lifts a hand, and then lets it fall back to his lap. “You think someone there is watching you. Keeping an eye on you.” He is so, so tired. Sasuke's fear flashes through him, white-hot, and it's his words from this morning—god, was it only this morning? Only six hours ago? It feels like an entire lifetime and a reincarnation ago—that echo, the 'someone has taken an interest in me', the implications—

Itachi says nothing, just stares, wide-eyed.

“It's Danzo, isn't it?” Shisui watches, waits for a reaction and gets nothing, and there it is, isn't it? Every confirmation he would have wanted, there in the absence of anything else. He had been so worried, so concerned that Itachi was too difficult to parse, but there it is. There it is. “He found you, talked to you, tried to make it seem like he would help you get out.” Someone has definitely commandeered his tongue, because it feels as if words are falling out like stones, and Shisui tries to recall if there was a Greek myth of some kind where a woman's words turned to rocks, or bugs, or flowers, he can't remember— “What does he have on you?”

Itachi looks down at his hands, folds them and unfolds them and twists them around one another, birds in perpetual motion. “Nothing.” There's something warring in his expression. “I do my duty to my family.”

The silence is heavy, uncomfortable; it is not dissimilar to wearing a wet coat in a cold room. Shisui narrows his eyes, stares at Itachi in profile and wonders. “Okay,” he says, because what do you say to that? “Okay.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are Happening now. or, not really like they're Happening, we're more finding out what _did_ happen, so then the _future_ things that Happen will _also_ make sense. 
> 
> as a heads up: I may be changing the updating schedule soon. you can check my fic tag [here](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/tagged/i+write+fic), as that's where I'll be posting any announcements in that vein.


	11. father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forewarnings for: danzo, some violence, some discussion of substances, my habit of throwing in anachronistic sections and jumping around the event timeline like it's hopscotch,

Shisui comes to in painful bursts of light, and his head feels like the static noise you get when you're between stations on the radio and can't seem to find the right spot for the needle, and just keep bouncing back and forth instead, between two numbers, two opposite points of interest. The first, unerring issue of contention is that he's cuffed, which, you know, sucks.

The rest of the room comes into focus with an unnerving slowness. “What,” Shisui forces out, although it's significantly more garbled than he intends it to be. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth when he tries to talk, and he dreams of drinking an entire bathtub of water. “What the fuck.”

“Language,” the man says, and the frightening part of it all is that he doesn't sound _unkind_ , per se. He sounds more like the teacher you don't want to be alone with. “You should have better manners by now, shouldn't you?” He is tall and broad-shouldered, although he looks wasted away, somehow, like old fabric stretching over the frame of a kite, or a canvas awning curling back at the edges, letting in the elements.

Shisui wants nothing more than to let his head drop forward and maybe sleep for a while, maybe sleep until he wakes up in his apartment, in his own bed, or maybe doesn't wake up at all. “Who're you.” Shisui's voice is flat; in vain, he tries to work up some saliva. He doesn't have enough energy to phrase it as a question.

“I'm here to help you.” He steps forwards, just enough that Shisui can squint and make out a general idea of what his face looks like. It's vaguely familiar, but so are so many other faces, faces from lineups and yearbooks and family photograph albums; so are the grainy stills from convenience store security cameras that inevitably end up in his lap, on his kitchen table, with the instructions written precisely on the back—we need to know about his investment portfolio, please provide information; she has visited the same address three times in the last week, please follow and advise; do not confront unless between eight and four in the afternoon, there will be witnesses otherwise—

Shisui wants to let his head drop back down to his chest, go to sleep, maybe wake up back in his own bed or in the flat above Anko's studio or in the emergency room or maybe not wake up at all, because everything seems to be pulsating, right up against his eyes and pulling away at a distance all at once. It's dizzying, cathartic, unmaking. “Right,” Shisui says, and it comes out in a gust of breath, in a wheeze. “Okay. Right.” He lifts his wrists as far from the table as they'll go—maybe a couple inches, at best, and tries to look up. It hurts. “Then help me,” he says, and it sounds a lot more desperate than he wants it to.

The man stops, framed against the one-way glass. Shisui has watched enough Law and Order in his formative years to know that much, because all he can see in the background is his own scared face staring back at him, looking impossibly young, impossibly stupid, and he wonders how many people are on the other side. He swallows, and it hurts. God, he really hopes there are people on the other side, because the alternative is that there are no witnesses.

“My name is Danzo.” Each word is certain, surely said many times before. “And for me to help you, you also have to help me.”

Shisui looks down at the bare metal of the table. There's a paper cup of water in front of him, and that would be great if he had full use of his hands. He sits there, stares at the cup, the table, the light fixture on the opposite wall. It strikes him that this place has much better lighting than cable lead him to believe. “Alright, then,” Shisui says, finally. It comes out as a rasp. “What do you want?”

There's a banging from outside the room, as if someone is ricocheting without any particular care down a hallway. The room must be soundproofed, Shisui realizes, because he can only hear thuds and a humming that must be yelling. He tests his strength against the metal legs of the chair; the plastic cuts into his flesh, and he fights down a grimace. Distraction or not, he won't really get anywhere without taking the chair with him, and a man hobbling down Park Row with a folding chair strapped to his ass is going to be conspicuous.

“A compromise,” Danzo says, and he holds himself like a snake, self-satiated, sure of himself. “You really don't enjoy your life, do you?”

Shisui blinks. “Do you mean living in general, or—” He shrugs, or tries to. “The rest of it?” He doesn't want to _die_ , that's for sure. Other than that it's mostly just existing and finding new and exciting ways to decrease the capacity of his short term memory. “I'm not looking to get executed, if that's what you're asking,” he adds, after a long pause. “I'm not about to die for some cause.”

“I'm not asking you to,” Danzo says smoothly. He steps closer once, twice; Shisui is infinitely grateful for the table between them. “Your family, though,” he says, and then stops.

Shisui stares resolutely at the dull, scratched metal of the table, and wonders what else has happened here. Violence, probably, and maybe a metamorphosis or two. God fucking knows, he thinks, and more percussive slams from outside the room jerk his head up.

Danzo's eyes are boring into him. “Your family is a blight,” he says, and honestly, it would have been easier if his tone had been dark or dramatic. It's light, conversational. Danzo could be asking him what he did last weekend, for fuck's sake, or do you drink tea or coffee? Do you prefer to break their necks when you kill them, or do you let them bleed out? “You do know this, yes?” He paces, slow and measured. This is his element, Shisui realizes. He could give less of a shit about what happens to anyone else, to the city, to the police force. It must be rather liberating, Shisui thinks, and then immediately hates himself for the thought.

“I mean, we're not the greatest,” Shisui says slowly, and he attempts to shift in his seat again. He vividly remembers turning down Anko's offer to get McDonalds in some kind of vain effort to take care of himself for once, and immediately regrets it, because looks like this just might be it. If he's about to die, who cares about the amount of plastic in McNuggets? “I'm, uh, kind of attached to, you know, my blood relatives at this point, though—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Danzo barks out; he's moving forward in a whirl of motion, slamming one palm flat onto the table. The sound echoes, harmonizes with what is most likely someone getting the shit beaten out of them outside. “Speak to me with respect, or do not speak at all.” He's close now, maybe a foot and a half away. “If you went... went away,” he adds, “What would they do? Send you counsel? Bail?” An entirely new expression washes across Danzo's face, as if he is lost somewhere else entirely; it resolves itself into an unpleasant smirk. “Visit you on the weekends?”

Shisui swallows, and there it is. There it is. “No,” he says hoarsely. “No.” They'd probably get him good and dead before the first year of time served, honestly. He fights back a frantic laugh. Fuck that, he'd never even make it to his arraignment.

“Ten years of your life, Shisui,” Danzo says, almost inaudible. “You'll die before even one is up. Is it worth it?” He reaches forward, splays his fingers. “Is this what your father wanted for you?”

It's instinctual, the way Shisui shoves himself back; the smooth soles of his beaten tennis shoes scrabble for purchase on the polished floor, and he can feel something rising in his throat. “Get away from me,” he forces out. The detached part of his brain wonders if there's anything left in his stomach to throw up, and the cerebellum kindly reminds it that he's going to try his damndest anyway. “Don't—you don't get to talk about him—” Something high-pitched and desperate makes its way into Shisui's voice and he hates himself for it, hates himself for this show of weakness.

Danzo pauses, hand inches from Shisui's face. “Do I,” he says slowly, and then repeats himself. “ _Do_ I?”

Shisui doesn't think about it—he snaps at Danzo's hand, works up what little saliva is in his mouth and spits at him, and he knows what's coming, so he shuts his eyes and relaxes his jaw and neck and takes it.

The backhand hits him hard, hard enough that he can feel himself jerk back a little bit on reflex. He works his jaw around and blinks; the lighting is a little bit brighter than before, and then darker and then brighter; he chalks it up to the dehydration and resigns himself to opening his eyes again, sitting up straight. “What do you want me to do for you?” he asks, finally, and there's something coppery sliding around between his teeth, down the back of his tongue. It's hot against the inside of his cheek and tastes like dirty metal.

“Watch them,” Danzo says, and Shisui shouldn't be impressed with how he doesn't hold his wrist, doesn't flinch, doesn't show pain. “And then tell me about it.” He shouldn't be, but he knows exactly how much force it takes to hit that hard, and how much it hurts. “Congratulations, you just became a consultant.”

Shisui spits onto the table in front of him. It's frothy and red and looks a little like Hawaiian punch, he thinks deliriously. “Fuck off.” It's going to be a bad one; he can already feel it rising on his cheekbone. “I know.”

Vaguely, Shisui wonders if Danzo is on some kind of medical regimen to prevent aging, because when he moves to hit him a second time he barely sees it coming, and takes the majority of the blow in the exact same spot. Like a dumbass, he thinks to himself. Like a dumbass. “Jesus,” he spits, and opens his mouth as wide as it'll go once, twice, makes sure he still has full range of motion in his jaw.

“Language,” Danzo says, and his voice is soft, as if he is no more than a disparaging mentor, frustrated with a lack of improvement. “What would Kagami say?” The words carry perfectly well, even over the continued commotion outside, the sound of a doorknob rattling.

“I get it,” It's barely understandable, even to his own ears. He registers a spot of red on the meaty part of Danzo's thumb. Maybe he clipped a tooth, Shisui thinks, with no small amount of satisfaction. He can assess for damage later, maybe home or at Anko's, just once he gets the fuck out of here. Right now the entire right side of his face is too numb to tell. It tingles unpleasantly, like the beginning of a sunburn, and a dull, deep ache has started in his head and in his jaw. “I get it,” he repeats, and gags a little as he swallows the blood.

“Your father would be so proud,” Danzo enunciates, and he steps slowly, with purpose, from his side of the table to squat down next to Shisui. His eyes seem sunken into his face, surrounded by weathered skin—he's seen things, of course, because who hasn't, but there's an inherent unease that he gives off, something that makes Shisui's skin crawl. It isn't even the reckless penchant towards violence, because that isn't _new—_ it's something _else_ , and Shisui really hopes he never finds out what it is.

Shisui makes to clench his teeth together and bites off a pained sound instead, because apparently he is not only stupid enough to get arrested, he is also stupid enough to forget about getting hit in the face and then try to grind his teeth not even five minutes later. “Don't touch me,” he says, rough and messy. He's almost sure he's drooling or something, or maybe it's blood, but the words are ragged, hanging onto his teeth, the bitten lip, the cut next to his mouth.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Danzo sighs, and Shisui feels him run a thumb along the skin beneath his left eye. It is clinical, cold and dry to the touch, and he's ashamed to admit that he squeezes his eyes shut. “Pick one, Shisui. Keep this one,” he says softly, with a harder than necessary press, “Or keep the one in your skin.”

Shisui can feel his heart hammering in his chest, can feel sweat prickling the small of his back, can feel Danzo's index and middle fingers digging into the muscle over his heart. “How long have you had it?” Danzo asks, conversationally. “A year or three, maybe four at the outside?” He draws in a breath and lets it go again, as if he's exasperated, and Shisui is just a very stubborn child that doesn't particularly like vegetables.

“Three,” Shisui finally forces out. “Three years.” His eyes are open just a crack, and the light hurts. Everything hurts—where the cuffs dig in, where the chair bumps against his spine, the swelling on his face, and now the humiliation.

“Ah, I see, I see.” Danzo takes on the attitude of a dentist asking about brushing habits, and yanks the collar of Shisui's shirt down by a couple inches. “Young, aren't you? That's very impressive.”

“Watch it,” Shisui hisses, but he catches himself before he shoulders Danzo in the side of the head. He forces his gaze to the door, wonders what's going on outside. He thinks for all of ten seconds it might be Fugaku, and then immediately dismisses the thought. He'd rather just die now, honestly, he thinks.

Danzo inspects the tattoo for another half minute or so, before rising abruptly and pacing back to stand between Shisui and the door. “The mangekyou, as well.” He seems... gratified. He's found out he's right about something, and it pleases him. “Miss Mitarashi's work too, is it not?”

Something lurches in his gut, and he wants to laugh, because he thought he'd gotten rid of empathy a while ago. “She isn't involved,” Shisui says instinctively, and he wants to throw up.

“Such skill,” Danzo murmurs, as if he hasn't heard, and his eyes slide to the wall behind Shisui, where the clock is mounted just out of sight. “Our time, unfortunately, is up.” Danzo reaches into his jacket, and for a split second Shisui is almost sure that he's going to pull a gun and just shoot him on the spot. Honestly he isn't all that upset about it, he thinks, and he's fairly certain he's losing consciousness again.

“Thrilled.” Shisui swallows down what is probably vomit.

Danzo paces with a measured stride, back towards the door. “The attitude is uncannily similar, too,” he says, conversationally. “I found it much more tolerable in Kagami.” He clasps his hands in front of him, looking for all the world like a contented monk. “And, you know,” he adds, as an afterthought, “The resemblance is particularly striking. Maybe it's the blood.”

Through slitted eyes he watches as Danzo turns, pulls out a sheaf of papers, thicker than his thumb, and folds them over. Darkness creeps in at the edges of his vision, and he's acutely aware that if he passes out his head will probably land right on top of that stupid little Dixie cup of water. He wants to laugh at the irony but can't bring himself to spare the oxygen. He hears the door slam open, and wonder if it's _now_ that he's going to die. Vaguely, he hopes it's some of the family's people, because at least then it would be quicker than anything else. Ruthless, yes, but inhumane? Most of the time, the _majority_ of the time, no—

“—the _fuck_ is going on here?” he hears, from somewhere above him and slightly to the left. “What the hell is this?” There's a hand on his shoulder, someone slapping gently at his face. They are at least considerate enough to do it on the side that _isn't_ already swelling, so that's nice.

Shisui looks around blearily; someone with dark hair, facing away from him, shirt with 'NYPD' on the back in unmistakeable black and white. He tries to focus, tries hard, but it's—it's difficult. No one will ever let him get some fucking sleep, for chrissake—

“He's yours now,” Danzo says, and Shisui forces his eyes open long enough to see the pile of papers Danzo shoves into the second man's chest. “Your liability. Continued repayment.”

“You're fucking crazy, he's a _kid—”_ The second man turns back down to Shisui, and he's definitely hallucinating, because he's pretty sure Obito died and that he _saw_ Obito die—they _all_ saw Obito die, and this is almost certainly the bad side of an acid trip or what you see at the bottom of a k-hole, he isn't totally sure. Shisui blinks once, twice, and Obito is kneeling next to him and holding an eye open. “Did he take anything?” he asks Danzo.

“No idea,” Danzo replies, and there's something mischievous about his tone. “Your liability, remember? Keep him in line. You understand how they work, don't you?”

“Hate him.” Shisui tries to keep to consciousness until he can just get the fuck out of here. Obito is already unlocking the cuffs, and Shisui works his jaw, rotates his wrists. Everything feels sore and cold, and he almost forgets about the zip ties and tries to get up anyway.

“Gotta knife?” He sounds like shit, even to his own ears.

Obito snorts. “First time I see you in two years and you're already asking me for shit,” he says, but he pulls a pocket knife from his belt and gets to work.

Shisui feels a little delirious. “You were always the cool cousin,” he says, and his eyes drift up to Danzo.

Danzo inclines his head. “Pleasure to meet you, Shisui. Please, keep in touch.” He turns and heads out, pausing only once in the doorframe. “Obito,” he says, “You're dismissed for the next two days. Take care of—of _this_ ,” he says, waving a hand in Shisui's general direction. “Maybe find Miss Mitarashi, in Greenpoint? I believe she runs a shop there.” He smiles, widely. It is only then that he turns and drifts out, leaving ominous implications in his wake.

“I'm fucking dead,” Shisui says, and he isn't even particularly upset about it. “I'm dead.”

“No, you're not,” Obito mutters, and works his knife through the second zip tie. “Has anyone ever shown you how to get out of these? It's actually pretty simple—”

“Jesus,” Shisui says, and kicks his feet out in front of him. “Thank you, oh my god—”

“Can you stand?” Obito asks, roughly; he's looking at the door every five seconds, and whenever he does Shisui can see a glimpse of the other side of his face, almost unrecognizable, and something punches him in the gut, because he's almost certain it's _his_ fault—

“Uh,” Shisui says, and grabs the table. “Uh, yeah.” He can _indeed_ stand, to his never-ending delight; how well or how long he can stand _for_ are definitely up for debate.

“Alright, alright.” Obito takes one of Shisui's arm and slings it around his neck. “Keep up and we'll be fine, it's all fine.”

“You're really convincing,” Shisui slurs, around the fat lip. “Do I look okay?”

Obito glances over at him briefly as they pass down the hallway; it's poorly lit and cramped, but Shisui can tell he lost one of his eyes. He swallows, hard, and bites back the guilt.

Shisui's gaze drifts down to the patch of fabric over his heart, and he wonders if Obito still has the tattoo, or if it was burned off, or if he got rid of it himself—

“Yeah,” Obito says, and he's definitely rolling the one remaining eye, Shisui thinks, astounded. Jesus fuck, he really is. “Don't worry, you'll still win Miss America.”

“Oh good.” The world darkens and sways a little as they judder down the steps at the back of the building, and he swears to god he can _feel_ his eyes roll back into his head. “What's time?”

“It's like two,” Obito says shortly, and he hoists Shisui a little more firmly into his grip. “Where am I dragging you? Mine is off-limits, Rin will kill me if she finds out that I'm involved with this shit again—” He grunts as Shisui nearly trips and takes them both down. “Jesus, did you _take_ something _?”_

“Anko,” Shisui answers promptly, and he wants to sit, to rest his head, he just wants some fucking _sleep—_ “Greenpoint, Baker Street—”

“The fucking _tattooist?_ ” Obito says, and he sounds a little shocked. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“No,” Shisui says, and he can vaguely see that he's being dragged down into the subway. “She's... She's good.” Belatedly, he realizes that he sounds like a complete idiot. “How's Rin? You guys good now?”

“No small talk, not when you're not on the brink of passing out.” Obito's breathing is slightly labored, likely from the effort of dragging someone similar in size down onto a subway platform. “Engaged, though.”

Shisui slaps at Obito's forearm. “Congrats. Told you she would.”

“Alright, alright.” The papers crinkle in the lining of Obito's jacket. “Let's go see Anko. Don't pass out on the fucking subway, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shisui says absently, and proceeds to do exactly that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, all!! I wanted to let that sink in first. I have about 30k more words of content written for this verse _so far_. I do not intend to abandon it, but I _will_ stop posting weekly after I go through the rest of what's already written, write until I finish it, and then start posting weekly again.   
> I _am_ writing other things too, if you'd want to check them out. I have one or two other fics in the works, and I plan to expand this universe a little: I'll be posting oneshots that serve to worldbuild and explore people and concepts I personally want to cover.   
> All notices and updates with regard to my writing are usually posted [here](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/). you're always free to slide into the dms!


	12. exposé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's an update schedule? i don't know her.

“Yeah, he just keeled over on the platform for Fulton Street,” Shisui hears someone say. “Poor kid. It was like something out a fucking sitcom, though, like definitely made _my_ week—”

“So you decided to make mine too, by bombing in here at three in the morning?” That's definitely Anko, in her version of a quiet tone, which really doesn't qualify as an inside voice. If Shisui were motivated enough to move, he'd remind her of the fact that the people to the left of them get dial-happy regarding noise complaints.

“I didn't have a ton of options, okay?” Obito sighs, loud enough for Shisui to hear, even with the fogginess enveloping his senses.

There's a pregnant pause before Anko speaks again. “Why not your apartment?” It's voiced innocently, just one tiny question—it can't really hurt, can it— “If I remember right, your place is closer to that precinct.”

People underestimate Anko. They underestimate her often and frequently, or they avoid her altogether because they're intimidated by her. Shisui is relatively certain that if it were a one on one, she would likely scalp Obito and then laugh.

“Yeah, well.” There's another uncomfortable silence, the sound of fabric on carpet as Obito shifts uncomfortably. “I couldn't.”

Anko's deep sigh is familiar, expansive—Shisui thinks of it as her bullshit sigh, the one she gives when she's dealing with the same problem for the tenth time in a month's span. Shisui is only partially ready to admit that he is most likely the cause of the aforementioned problem. “Rin doesn't know.” It's barely in the neighborhood of an inquiry, more of a verdict handed down.

“No.” Obito clears his throat.

“You gonna tell her?”

“Ah.” If there were any humor at all in Obito's voice, it might be called a laugh. “Also no.”

Their conversation dwindles for a moment, and the immediate silence is dampened by the distant, tinny hum of the stereo in the next room. It's the top hits, Shisui registers vaguely, and he's a little worried about his mental faculties right now because he's having trouble differentiating The Cure from Tears for Fears.

Shisui can imagine Anko's expression with amazing clarity, likely because he's had it directed at _him_ time and time again: eyebrows knitted together, head tilted to the side, something between sympathy and annoyance caught in the lines of her mouth. She probably has both long legs curled up underneath her, is probably wearing the ratty Pink Floyd shirt he gave her for her birthday when they were sixteen or seventeen, he isn't quite sure any more.

“Look.” Anko sounds as if she's about to try to explain differential equations to a pre-schooler. “I don't know if you know this, but most relationships are based on weird, kooky little things like honesty and trust—”

Obito interrupts, and the anger is just as quick to rise in his voice as it's always been. “What was I supposed to do, _leave_ him there?”

“I never said that.” There's the distinctive clink of ceramic on glass. “I just think that maybe you should be up front about this before it comes back to bite you in the ass.” There's a pause, one that drags for several seconds. “Rin isn't stupid, Obito.”

“I know that. I _know_ that.” Another heavy exhale, the sound of cloth rustling. “I don't want to let her down, you know? I said I was done with the rest of them, and she doesn't need to worry about something I'll have _dealt_ with already—”

Anko's voice is a low hiss. “You just got _engaged,_ dumbass.”

Shisui rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand. It feels like peeling away glue. There are no immediately forthcoming memories, however, just an overwhelming sense of 'oh, shit'. The entire left side of his face seems to be made of pain, and he winces when he tries to sit up. He rolls over onto his back instead.

A series of seventies rock posters and glow in the dark sticky stars stare back, and the plastic is faintly luminescent in the half-light. If he turns his head to the side, he can glimpse Anko through half-focused eyes, curled into her favorite chair, looking exactly as she always does (beautiful, frightening, very pissed off).

“I am _aware_ , thanks,” Obito says back, in a harsh whisper. “And things are going decently for the first time in recent memory, so I'm trying to _not_ fuck it up—”

Shisui must move, or make a sound, or maybe breathe too loud, because Anko's gaze darts to him. Her eyes widen incrementally, and she raises an eyebrow. “He's up.”

“It lives.” Obito's enthusiasm is somewhat lacking.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Anko's words are a sing-song, and she's ensconced comfortably in the mismatched armchair, balancing a mug on one bare knee. “You're looking a little tenderized.”

“You got something right here,” Obito chimes in, from where he's sitting against the end of the couch, on the floor. “You drooled a little.”

“You drooled a _lot.”_ Anko placidly sips at whatever the hell is in that mug.

“Yeah.” Shisui nearly hurls when he sits up. “Yeah. You're famous now.”

Anko shrugs. “1PP was a little further than I wanted my renown to extend, you know?”

Shisui closes his eyes and moves—slowly, slowly—to rest his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, and yeah. He's definitely dying, or maybe achieving nirvana, because nothing has ever really made him feel quite this transcendentally shitty. “Water?” Letting out a slow breath, he rubs his eyes again, and it feels like he's slept for years and also not in decades.

Anko gestures lazily at the little end table. “Tylenol too, although I wouldn't just yet.” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Alright,” Shisui says, and squints at her for a minute, trying to discern the nuances in her expression. As of right now, it isn't looking too good for him. “You're mad at me,” he adds, and he doesn't bother with making it a question.

“Well.” Anko rolls her eyes, glancing sidelong at Obito. “I mean, besides everyone knowing where I live—”

“Anko, you're in the fucking phone book and the business directory—”

“Not the point, Obito,” she interrupts, and suddenly he is very, very glad she isn't directing that tone at him outright. It definitely feels like it is, and Shisui starts cataloguing the list of things he may or may not have potentially done to earn that kind of look. He stops after about eight in the span of five seconds and decides that maybe the afterlife will be kinder to him.

He nods his head in a sad concession, and immediately regrets it. “Sorry.” Shisui's voice is a rasp, and it's a little startling. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I didn't know he knew.” He grabs the water bottle off the end table—moving slowly this time—and struggles to twist the cap off with fingers that still tingle as if they're asleep. He really wishes he could remember everything leading up to the room, and Danzo, and those condescending threats, but—

Obito snorts. “Danzo knows everything.” There's a bitterness there that Shisui can't quite touch, can't wrap his limp brain around. “He'll find every shitty thing you've ever done and make you his bitch.”

Shisui winces. “Oh, good,” he mutters, and finally succeeds in loosening the cap. He drinks, greedy; within thirty seconds he regrets it, and the water feels like it's boiling in his stomach, coalescing into a giant lump, coagulating with all the guilt that's probably still hanging around in his guts, and he suppresses a gag.

“Easy,” Anko says, and she makes an effort to lighten her tone this time. It would be reassuring if he hadn't known her for years, hadn't burned into his brain what she looks like when she's concerned or angry or scared. “Are you gonna puke again?”

“Again?” Shisui asks, and shuts his mouth right after, because opening it never seems to be a good idea. It's only ever something bad that comes out.

She smiles, beatific. “Yeah, you owe me a new area rug.”  
“That thing was hideous.” Shisui makes a face. “I did you a favor.”

“And, like, a handle of Tito's for my troubles.” Anko pushes herself up, meanders through the swinging beaded curtains into the kitchenette. They clack behind her, chattering purple teeth. “Really, though,” she calls, and everything is punctuated by the sounds of crockery clattering against crockery and running water, small incalescent sounds, enough to drown out an overly talkative mind. “Get your shit together. I have better things to do than repeat myself.”

Shisui picks at the label on the water bottle instead, takes another couple of sips, and then begins to inspect it rather thoroughly. Maybe there's something good hidden in the fine print, like the cure for cancer or the winning lotto numbers or the secret to giving enough of a shit about yourself to actively avoid death. “My shit _is_ together,” he mumbles, and he almost sounds convincing. He almost sounds like he _wasn't_ just, you know, arrested and detained.

Obito doesn't respond, he just _looks_ at him, just looks with the one good eye. His mouth works around half-gestated words for a couple seconds. “Sure, buddy. Sure.”

“Congrats again on getting engaged, by the way.” Shisui swallows, and he's probably making a weird face, but no matter how much water he drinks his mouth feels dry. “And, you know, on the being alive thing?”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Were you gonna _tell_ me, or like, not really?”

Obito shrugs, and he's still looking at the ground. “Look, that was the only way for me to get out. They all thought I was dead.”

Shisui sits there for a moment, stares at the water bottle in his hands. “I guess.”

They sit in silence for another minute or two; there's a slightly louder crash or two from the kitchen, and it's a testament to Shisui's complete and total anhedonia—or maybe just his lack of self-preservation—that he does not jump. Obito does not move, either, just stares off into the space slightly above and to the left of Shisui's head with an intensity bordering on frightening.

Anko strolls back in. The kitchen light refracts through the beads and dapples her in scales, purple and white and green. “You're a dumbass,” she says, and she is terrifying, because as far as he's concerned Anko is some kind of minor deity who requires a biannual blood sacrifice to maintain her freakishly clear skin. “Such a fucking dumbass, Shisui, and I swear to god if I have to rehydrate your concussed idiot self one more time I will _kill_ you.” She slaps a second water bottle into his hand, which he nearly drops.

“Okay, _okay,”_ Shisui says, irritable, and he hears Obito choke a little. Good, he thinks, and plows on. Maybe he'll luck out and Obito will kill him in his sleep. “I get it.”

“You don't,” Anko snaps. Her formerly composed demeanor—manufactured, no doubt—vanishes in its entirety. “You really don't.” Her hand tracks a familiar path up to her face before she catches herself, and Shisui sees the little war on her face as she forces her hand back to her side. Her fingers grasp at the hem of her shirt, the rip by the pocket of her sweats, at her _other_ hand, flitting back and forth. It's dizzying, and Shisui doesn't know where to look. In his mind's eye he can still see her ten years ago, hand over her mouth, biting on the heel of her palm, crying—

He ends up looking up, staring right back. “I'm sorry, Anko. I am.” Paper rustles, and in his peripheral he can see Obito heading for the door. He nods discreetly at the end table, at the sheaf of manila and off white and eggshell, office colors he has no fucking use for, no idea where to start sifting through them while he looks for a needle in a haystack, or maybe the biological survival imperative that he seems to have misplaced.

Anko seems to waver a little, and for a second there's a gut-dropping sensation of fear as Shisui wonders if it actually _isn't_ all out, that there's still residual alkane groups bumping around somewhere in his nervous system, plucking at his optic nerve. It's only after a several-second lag that he realizes she _is_ moving, shaking with tiny heartbeat movements as she makes her way towards the other end of the couch. “Don't apologize,” she says, and there's a rawness there, something hinted at in sleight of hand, in the redness around her eyes. “Just—just stop. Stop doing that.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and her breathing hitches a little; she leans back a little against the arm of the couch, and her elbows poke out at awkward angles.

Shisui hates this couch. It's a weird shade of mauve and it's itchy, but it had been on the side of the road in Staten Island and it had been free. “It's not—” It's not like that, he wants to say. It's not a problem. I wasn't trying to scare you. “I'm sorry,” he says lamely. It feels stilted, but everything does, like trying to breathe through wet cotton or raw wool.

“I just fucking said don't be sorry.” There's no heat in it.

Inhale, exhale. It's frightening how complicated lung function is when you think about it. “What do you want me to do, then?” Shisui hears his own words in a stranger's voice. She twists her hands into the horribly ugly plaid fleece blanket thrown over the arm of the sofa, and it's as if he's watching from underwater. The quiet is overbearing, broken only by the resolute clunking of the lazy heating system. He breathes in again, and the sensation is like that of standing on a hotel balcony in a strange city. “Anko,” he says again, and remembers just how much he hates making her upset. “Anko.”

There's the tiniest bit of eyeliner smeared at the corner of Anko's right eye, a wispy smudge she must have missed. “Just—just cut it _out,_ ” she says, and her mouth curls down into something like disapproval, or frustration, or pre-meditated loss.

“I will, I promise—”

“Don't even promise.” There's a framework of something metallic in her voice this time, something ironlike, something that hurts to touch. “Don't fucking _promise_ , okay? You think I like seeing this happen?” She says promise like disease, or rush hour traffic. “I can't make you leave—”

“I _can't_ leave, Anko, I can't—”

Anko rolls her eyes, and it's amazing that she can look pissed even when she's on the verge of tears. “Literally every single person in your family is so stupid.” Her voice is thick. “Except Izumi. The rest of you are lucky you can even tie your shoes.”

Shisui looks at his hands, at the rip on the side of his pants leg. It hadn't been there when he'd put them on this morning, and he can see a bit of his knee and a fresh scab through it. “Okay,” he says, because there isn't really anything else to say to that. “Okay.”

Then there is silence again, and it isn't as stifling, so Shisui can't bring himself to break it. It's uncannily similar to how it used to be (just the two of them, simple, straightforward, without bureaucracy or benzodiazepines), and it unsettles as much as it comforts.

The heater kicks on again, and the warm draft from the vent near the baseboard makes the bead curtains move just a little. They clack in the dark like weighted stones, or the devil's abacus. He can hear Anko inhale, and hold her breath. It's a solid seven seconds before she lets it out again. “Did they take everything?” she finally asks, and to anyone else it would sound nonchalant. For better or worse, however, the more she cares the less it seems to be so. “You know, like—” She mimes flushing a toilet.

“Yup.” Shisui crosses his arms over his chest. He's messy, even to his own observation; his motions are too loose, his body too relaxed. Fuck, he thinks, and then comes the inevitable _I'll never do it again_. Which, frankly speaking, is mostly bullshit.

“No offense, but that's not a bad thing.” She pulls her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around her shins. “Ever since you, you know—” Anko makes a vague gesture at her own throat, and it's rather clear as to what she means. “You've been off. Not good.”

Shisui hates this, hates beating around the bush. “I know. I know.” There's really only so long he can play this for anyway, right? “I mean, I didn't expect anything else.” He figures his luck will run out at some point, and then wants to sock himself a good one, because if getting dragged into some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement with someone who had a serious hatred for Kagami wasn't his luck running out, he isn't sure what _is_.

Anko shifts a little, as if there's something she's trying to stop herself from saying, as if she might distract the words before they make their way to her mouth if she moves around enough. “All right, then,” she says slowly. Jostle them. Confuse them. Keep them from getting out. Shisui can imagine what she might be holding back on, and it doesn't do all that much to reassure.

Another five minutes pass in silence, and the beginnings of nausea make a return. The digital clock on the end table reads 3:49; the red light of the digits illuminates the pile of crumpled papers lying in wait. “Can I stay here?” Shisui finally forces out, and it feels like an admission of something, like sitting across from the priest with some bullshit screen separating the two of you, and you know he knows you know, and it's enough to make his head hurt even more. “I don't think I can get home.”

“Dumbass,” Anko scoffs, and nudges his thigh with a bare foot. “Yeah, like I was gonna make you leave.” Her tone lacks its usual edge, though, and he's polite enough not to look too closely at her expression.

Shisui ignores the burning behind his eyes, and wonders if he can chalk it up to being overtired or regrettably more sober, and forces something a little more neutral onto his face. “Thanks, Anko.”

Her voice is a little thick, something Shisui knows he is meant to dutifully ignore. “I even got you your own garbage can,” Anko says. She aims for lighthearted and falls somewhat short. It hurts, more than he expected it to. “True friendship.”

The world is starting to slide a little at the edges, melting into something softer and more nebulous. It's terrifying, and Shisui leans over and rests his head on her shoulder. “You're the best,” he says, and his voice is small in the quiet, dampened by cold sweats and an absent kind of fear for his own well being, which is a decidedly foreign feeling. “Sorry I'm gross,” he hears himself say, and his words sound like they're coming from underwater.

“You're so dumb,” Anko mutters, but there's a warm shoulder that he's pressing his cheek into, and a cool hand on the back of his neck. “You're so fucking lucky you know too much for me to just ditch you now.” She's small and soft and very comfortable. “I mean, no one can know I'm capable of crying, you know what I mean?”

“Love you too,” he says, and the words come out garbled, consumed right away by something nasty living in his larynx.

Anko sighs. “Yeah, yeah, just don't drool on me.” Her motions and the way she holds herself are a stark contrast to harsher words. “Who else am I gonna get to put up with me?”

Shisui snorts into her shirt, ignoring the wordless sound of protest. “Obito,” he mutters. “See how long you can be in a room together—”

“What, till there's a dead body?” Her body shakes a little as she laughs. “He's still mad that I tried to steal his girlfriend.”

“I mean, you _did_ try—”

“It's been like months now! I wasn't supposed to know it would _work—”_

“Yeah, yeah.” This time the silence they lapse into is companionable, a repeat of years and years of doing exactly this.

When he dreams, as he inevitably does, it's of running a convoluted maze over and over again blindfolded, and drowning on dry land.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am terrible and i am [here](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/).


	13. spaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there everybody i have no impulse control (fires off updates like a bad sharpshooter in an old western)

Waking up curled into fetal position on a lumpy loveseat is a bit of a staggering experience, and kind of feels like being birthed from the womb again. Shisui blinks a couple times, and wonders if this time he can strangle himself with the umbilical cord before he makes it out. He pushes himself up into a slouch, and stares blankly at the blanket ensnaring his legs. Not an umbilical cord, but it just might work.

“You're up,” Itachi says, without looking up from the papers on his lap. He's curled up in the sad tartan excuse for an arm chair, tapping a pen against the armrest. It isn't really a question, either, and Shisui wonders if the gene for omniscience just happened to miss him somewhere along the line.

“Yeah.” Shisui rubs at his eyes unceremoniously. “What time is it?” He's guessing four or five, by the way the panels of dusty sunlight are sliding down the wall, gently illuminating that fucking shag carpet he hates. It's all very familiar, very expected, very home-like. Shisui can't really discern whether or not the sensation in his gut is fear or anticipation or maybe contentment—who has time for that, in this day and age?

Itachi leans back a little, craning his neck to look at the clock in the kitchen; Shisui absolutely does not seek out the tiny ridges where his collarbones rise above the skin or look for pen marks near his mouth, because that would be gay and also very weird. He is over that, Shisui tells himself firmly, and simultaneously realizes in the back of his mind that he will probably never be over it. “It's almost seven.”

“Shit.” There were things he'd wanted to get done, like actually cleaning out his sad excuse for a refrigerator, or wallowing in existential guilt. Normal weekday activities. Shisui swallows, and immediately wants to gag because his mouth tastes like the Hudson. “Did I just—just fall asleep?” He has no concrete memory of falling asleep, but that doesn't really matter, because in general he only has concrete memories of about half of the last five or so days.

“It's fine,” Itachi says, and maybe Shisui is definitely losing his mind, because his face looks—looks _softer_ than usual. Itachi hurts to look at when his expression is less guarded, because Shisui feels like he's intruding. “You needed to.”

Shisui yawns, shrugging evasively. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “I look terrible, I know. You pointed that out already.”

Itachi has already returned his attention to the binder he's balancing on his knees. “You did,” he says, matter of fact, and underlines a passage of text with more verve than necessary. Shisui figures it's how he gets his frustration out: extremely aggressive academic organizational techniques.“I noticed earlier that your pupils aren't dilating properly,” he adds, in a tone as close to casual as he'll ever get. “You're most likely concussed.”

Shisui stares at him, bemused, and opens his mouth twice and closes it again before actually speaking. “What?” He makes the executive decision that now is not the time to unpack the whole 'I noticed the exact diameter of your pupils multiple times and compared them' thing, and decides to just be mildly flattered instead.

Itachi pushes his glasses up a little, and maybe someone else wouldn't have noticed the way it's meant to hide the suspicious look on his face. Unfortunately—for better or for worse—Shisui is no longer one of those people. “What did you hit your head on?”

“A faucet.” Shisui stares pointedly down at the worn patch in his jeans that's very, very close to becoming another rip, and decides not to even touch on the fact that their interpersonal relationship now extends insofar as to include pupil dilation. In fact, it's probably safer to just keep looking at his pants and avoid making any more eye contact whatsoever. “I was sober at the time.”

“I didn't ask.” Itachi flips to the next page and begins highlighting. “I found the tylenol in your bathroom. You should take some.”

“Thanks,” Shisui says, bemused. “That was—” Nice? Thoughtful? Fuel for the already burgeoning infatuation I seem to have acquired for you, so help me god? “Um, thanks.”

Itachi glances over at him, briefly, one more time. The look on his face _could_ be concern, if Shisui tilts his head and squints a little, but he refrains from doing so, although it takes far more self control than he thought he was capable of mustering. “Also, your peroxide is expired. And the cold medicine.”

“Peroxide doesn't _go_ bad,” Shisui mutters under his breath, and forces himself up. He wonders if there's something in the water in the city that causes premature aging, because there's too much joint pain and miscellaneous crackling noises for his comfort. “And like.. It's NyQuil. I'm pretty sure it's fine.” He shakes out the blanket, folds it with a couple sloppy motions, and tosses it over the back of the couch. “Don't worry about it,” he adds as an afterthought, and moves towards the kitchen.

Itachi sniffs, in a way that says 'I could absolutely prove you wrong on this, but I'm letting it slide for right now'. “I'm just letting you know,” he says, calm as ever. He makes a note in the margin of one page before flipping to the next.

Shisui really should be doing his job, should maybe be trying to find out what's in those pages, continue gathering any necessary information—there's a million and one things he _should_ be doing, but clearly somewhere along the line he decided that trying to discreetly stare as often as possible is a better use of his time. “Duly noted,” Shisui says shortly. “I'll put it on my to-do list for this week.” There's a bit of an edge that he doesn't really mean there, creeping into his tone despite his best efforts.

Itachi doesn't look up, but Shisui realizes he is also enough of a creep to identify the slightest changes in facial expression from three meters away, and the way his eyes narrow just slightly is telling enough. “Fine.”

“Good.” Shisui stands there a second longer, hands on his hips, before he decides there's no winner to the eternal glare-based pissing contest. “Good,” he repeats, mostly to himself, as he yanks open a cabinet with a little more force than usual and grabs a mismatched plastic cup. This one is unfortunate to have the 'Family Feud' logo on it in peeling vinyl, and Shisui decides it's a little too apt.

“Take the tylenol,” Itachi says from the other room, and it's a testament to just how small the apartment is that he barely has to raise his voice. He might as well have, for all the thinly veiled irritation in his tone. “Or do you need _actual_ medical treatment?” Oddly enough, it sounds like an insult.

Shisui faces the window over the sink and fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, let me just, you know, walk into the emergency room and hand them my identification and have them call the fucking cops.” Shisui lets the water run for a couple seconds before filling his tv-gameshow abomination of a drinking glass; he leans on the counter a little, and honestly, he wants nothing more than to go back to sleep, or maybe wake up ten years from now with a 401k and full health coverage.

“You just told me you were an officer.” Itachi's voice is suddenly much, much closer, and it takes every ounce of reflex suppression left in Shisui's body not to jump, or hit an octave that would put Mariah Carey to shame.

“Jesus.” Shisui turns the water off with a little more vehemence than any plumbing fixture has ever deserved, except for maybe the bathroom spigot from this morning. _That_ one can go fuck itself, he thinks, with extreme prejudice. “Don't _do_ that.”

Itachi looks at him curiously, already nestled into his favorite corner where two of the countertop panels meet. “Do what?”

Shisui stares at him for a long moment before he decides it isn't worth it; he hands Itachi his water and just sighs instead. “Never mind.” He reaches for another cup, this one a fabulously bright Barney print, and fills it for himself. “And I'm _not_ , not really.” He's fairly certain there are no more than four people aware of his role—five, now, if he counts Itachi, and he's reluctant to. He also has a sneaking suspicion that Danzo and company haven't really publicized his status, which makes _sense_ , but also has him suspicious, because at the end he's supposed to get _out,_ get _away_ from all of this. With no one to vouch for him but a distant cousin with a questionable past himself, though—Shisui just tries not to think about it most days, for his own peace of mind.

“A consultant, then,” Itachi says slowly, and he's looking at a patch of linoleum indistinguishable from its surrounding compatriots, and potentially doing calculus in his head. “Are there records? Paperwork?” His gaze drifts, and Shisui knows from countless evenings this is what he does when he's thinking, when he's missing pieces of information, when he's trying to figure out what he said that was so funny, when he stops mid-sentence because the words wouldn't have come out quite right—

Shisui says nothing, and looks at the stupid Barney cup in his hand, and shuts off the tap with a little more force than necessary. He can hear Itachi's sharp exhale, and doesn't even need to look at him to decipher it.

Itachi pushes his glasses up a little, and his eyes drift up to meet Shisui's just once before he looks down again.“Did you _sign_ anything?” he asks, and it sounds a little strained; he's twisting his fingers into the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt, a long-standing habit. Their clothes are easy to tell apart, Shisui thinks, because all of his are unusually worn on the inner part of the cuff from where he's picked at threads and worried the fabric away. “Was anyone else present?” Very businesslike, very routine, except for the way he still won't look Shisui in the eye or, you know, look at him at all.

His tone doesn't change all that much, but there's something in his voice Shisui can't quite pin down, and it unnerves him. “No. And also no.” He rolls his shoulders and prays to god something cracks, if only to get rid of the tension that seems to be building at the base of his skull. “I wasn't thinking,” he adds, and it feels like the words are being dragged out of him. Wasn't thinking, _couldn't_ think, could barely figure out what was going on, the whole shebang, and he doesn't really care to admit to any of that right now.

“You had a right to counsel,” Itachi says, sharp enough to cut.

Shisui wants to point out that he's holding onto that cup really tightly for someone who has drank absolutely zero water since it was handed to him, but—time and place, he reminds himself, and then realizes he's unnecessarily obsessing over the adequacy of someone else's hydration, and reminds himself to chill the fuck out and maybe get a life. It's highly unlikely that he will do either.

“You had due process rights.” He sets his glass down with enough force to send a bit of water sloshing over the edge. “It doesn't matter what you did. It's non-negotiable.” He clears his throat, a little harder than might be necessary. Shisui resolves to leave those fucking cough drops right on top of that binder of his, and hopes that'll get his point across.

“I really don't think that matters at this point.” Shisui usually likes being right, but it's significantly less enjoyable when it involves the vast majority of his poor decisions closing in on him and an exponentially increasing potential for completely and absolutely losing his shit. “It's been years. They wouldn't actually believe me, and even if they did—”

Itachi shouldn't be able to look intimidating in mismatched socks and a too-big shirt, but he somehow _does._ Shisui estimates that ninety percent of his current issues would no longer be relevant he had a thousand yard stare half as effective. “Go on,” he prompts, and it isn't really an option.

But what do you say to that? Even if they did, they would never believe me over Danzo, your father would still have me shot in Times Square in front of a studio audience for at least ten different reasons (replete with laugh track) I could _still_ never get away from this, by the way you're _so_ gorgeous when you're angry, or happy, or really just in general— “It wouldn't work.” Shisui drains the rest of his water and drops the cup into the sink. “It's fine, I'm not worried about it.”

“Really,” Itachi says, and this time he doesn't break eye contact, and Shisui just can't win, because now he doesn't know whether to be intimidated or turned on and _jesus_ why is he like this. “I'd urge you to consider it.” He reaches over and picks the cup up out of the sink, and turns it upside down on the drainboard with no small amount of prejudice; the _thunk_ made when the two surfaces come into contact is exceedingly loud in the silence. “Please.” The word comes out a little too sharp to be considered a nicety.

Shisui fights back a nervous laugh, although he's fairly certain nothing else will make him look like more of an asshole than he already is. He also absolutely does _not_ have any feelings whatsoever about Itachi invading his personal space. Not one. None at all. Really, he couldn't care less. “I don't think worrying will do anything.” Unfortunately, he realizes a little too late that this is the Wrong Thing to say. The worst thing, quite possibly.

There is a resolute set to Itachi's jaw; his arms are wrapped around himself, as if he's trying to hold himself together, as if there might be blood when he lets go. “It might give you the push towards self-preservation that you seem to lack,” he snaps, and immediately looks away.

Fighting the urge to slowly and methodically rip his own hair out, Shisui forces himself to let go of the edge of the counter and pace to the island, and then to the sink, and then back to the island. He can't—can't _think_ , and it feels like everything is moving very very slowly and then speeding up in bursts, in infinitesimal flashes lost to his comprehension. He opens his mouth and raises a hand, and then closes his mouth for another couple seconds before speaking, because clearly his brain decided to sign off earlier today. Vaguely, he wonders if it was possible he threw it up in the train station bathroom. “Hang on,” he says, and contrary to popular belief, he's acutely aware of exactly how much of an idiot he appears to be.

Itachi continues to stare at the spilled water on the counter, even while speaking. It's a little unsettling, but honestly nothing out of the ordinary at this point. “All right.” There's a particular way his mouth twitches that belies more emotion than he's letting on—he's probably irritated, maybe a little concerned, and oh _god_ does Shisui feel like an over-invested creep for even _knowing_ what everything means—

“Look,” Shisui says, and he doesn't know where to look. Floor, window, wall, sink, anywhere but his—his whatever-this-is. “Look, Itachi. It's fine. It is what it is.”

Itachi glowers at him. “Why don't you take some tylenol?” he suggests, in a tone that makes it clear that this isn't a suggestion, and that he's merely phrasing it as such because years of Mikoto's parenting have gotten the best of him.

It takes all his composure—of which, admittedly, there isn't much—not to glare right back. He now understands the phrase 'true love is blind', because he's been glaring in scowling in frustration so often he's fairly certain he lost several digits of vision. “I'm fine, thanks.” Shisui leans back against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest, and settles in. “Really,” he adds. “I don't want to keep you from whatever you're doing.” He shifts most of his weight to one foot, as if staking a claim, or making a point, or maybe as a manner of convincing himself he's doing the right thing.

Itachi blinks several times, and his eyebrows shoot up. “All right, then.” He sweeps out of the kitchen with as much dignity as anyone can have in sweatpants.

Shisui waits until he hears papers rustling, and then runs a hand over his face. When, exactly, he wants to ask, did this become his life? Unfortunately, the store-brand bottle of tylenol has absolutely nothing to say on the matter, and he's stuck staring at an empty kitchen with a pounding headache. With reluctance, he uncaps the tylenol, shakes some out into his hand, and swallows them dry. The acrid aftertaste might be regret, or it might just be the coating on the pills, but either way it isn't very pleasant.

Itachi looks up briefly when Shisui stalks over to the front door and checks the locks one by one by one, methodically testing each with a rattle. “I'm going to bed,” he says, and hopefully Itachi will just ignore the fact that he maybe woke up less than forty minutes ago.

“Good.” Itachi highlights a section of text rather aggressively, and then caps the marker with an ominous _snap_. “That might help.”

Shisui prays for patience in all things, and maybe for the ability to function at a level one or two tiers above sentient slow loris. “Yeah,” he says, and stands awkwardly by the couch for about fifteen seconds too long. “Are you, uh, going to sleep soon?”

“Probably not.”

“Oh, okay.” Shisui runs a hand through his hair and sighs, and for maybe the tenth time that day he wishes he didn't have a Pavlovian reaction of 'guess we're married now' to Itachi doing literally _anything_ in his apartment, like making tea or being annoyed or critiquing his food choices or taking notes aggressively or even just existing in his general proximity.

Itachi clears his throat, pushes his glasses back up his nose, and returns to his rather intense vivisection of whatever it is he's working on, which really, Shisui should honestly have a better idea of if he were doing his _job_ and not running around—what was it, Obito had called it _playing house—_

Shisui takes that as his cue to leave, and plods down the hallway with all the grace of a semi climbing a particularly steep hill; he is so very, very tired, and for no discernible reason. He's a little shocked to see his bed actually _made_ for once, and chalks it up to Itachi's incapability to deal with disorder for more than five minutes consecutively. He kicks off his shoes and changes into sweatpants, and lays between the sheets in a silence so complete he imagines he can hear his heart thudding in his chest.

The water stain on the ceiling swims in and out of focus. When he falls asleep his dreams are fragmented, broken into interlocking facets that skip from one topic to the next.

There is someone who looks suspiciously similar to his father walking down an empty city block, and no matter how fast he runs he can't catch up. The rhythmic beat of a drum echoes down the empty street, bouncing off the buildings with unnatural strength; it feels like the moments before the explosion, the last few seconds before half a floor came down on Obito, and Shisui runs faster because maybe this time he can stop it, this time he knows what's going to happen and he's ready and he knows where he fucked up last time, honest—

Something tightens around his lungs, an iron vice; Kagami stops walking and turns to face him, and he says, “Maybe you should have quit smoking sooner,” and the wry grin on his face is an identical copy to what he looked like in life, and Shisui chokes a little and opens his mouth to speak, to say 'Dad, where'd you go, I thought you were coming back—

But then he blinks, and it's Danzo standing there, except this Danzo is unwinding a long long bandage from his arm to reveal hundreds of the tiny eyes tattooed onto it, ink still fresh, and Danzo says, “I have one from each of them, and you to thank for it,” and then he smiles but it isn't a smile, it's just a face splitting cleanly, like a melon—

Shisui opens his mouth to speak and the explosion hits all over again and the earth bends under him and he can hear someone screaming and he knows it's Obito somewhere under the rubble and so he starts digging, pulling at chunks of concrete and rebar until his hands slide right through, and he realizes he's stopped taking up space and he's sliding until he's falling and someone's gripping his wrist, hard, and shaking him, and he can feel the asphalt scraping his cheek and someone pulling him down—

“Shisui.” It's Itachi, Itachi with a hand wrapped around his wrist and an uncharacteristically concerned expression on his face.

Shisui blinks very slowly and counts to ten, and honestly maybe this is just part of the nightmare, because his life seems to be one embarrassing moment followed by another and then book-ended with near-death experiences. “Sorry.” Itachi's hand is cool, or maybe his skin is just too hot, but it's cold sweat, and he can feel his shirt sticking to his back and wants to maybe change it, or peel his skin off along with it. When he slides his wrist out of Itachi's grasp, it's both a loss and a relief.

The lamp in the corner is on, and half the room is cast in an oddly muted golden glow; the other half is uneven patches of shadow and mostly-folded clothes. Shisui glances briefly at the clock on his bedside table, and wants to scream. Only eleven thirty, which means another five, six hours until he can reasonably get up and stop sleeping, because he isn't really a fan of having the same nightmare with new and exciting alterations over and over again.

Itachi is frowning at him, as if trying to decipher a particularly difficult sodoku puzzle. “Do you need water?”

Shisui runs a hand through his hair and grimaces, because somehow he's managed to knot it again in the last twelve hours since he last showered. This morning, Obito's apartment, the train station—it all feels far away, removed from right now. “I'm, uh, okay.” His throat feels like he chain smoked for two hours straight and then gargled brass tacks. “Yeah. Thanks, though.”

“Do you—” Itachi seems to need to stop to think mid-sentence, and, as he always does, he chews the inside of one cheek, chews his lower lip, generally does things that shouldn't be overly attractive but are. “What was it?” He says it hesitantly, as if the concept of talking about something abstract and/or potentially involving feelings has been dragged from him after ten hours under thumbscrews. Which, honestly, is highly relatable—although maybe they're both abnormalities and it's just a Uchiha thing and will ultimately be the cause of the entire family dying out, who knows.

Shisui does his level best to not stare at Itachi's mouth; he's an opportunist, for chrissake, okay? So sue him; he's already mentally penciled in another couple years in purgatory for the train of thought he's had over the past five to ten seconds, and the way the residual anxiety mixes with some sort of misplaced anticipation is kind of making him nauseous. “Like usual,” Shisui says, and his voice sounds rather far away and tinny, like it's coming through on a bad radio. “Isn't real, though, so it's fine.” He figures the comforter tangled in his lap is the safest place to look, and pulls a stray thread from its hem and starts to wrap it around his index finger.

Itachi exhales sharply through his nose, and when he speaks, it's tinged with exasperation. “Do you know exactly how often you have experiences 'like usual'?” he asks, and Shisui wonders why he even bothers with a rhetorical question, because he's fairly certain Itachi could catalog each and every worrying or maladaptive behavior he exhibits for a week's span without skipping a beat.

Honestly, Shisui would rather not think about any aspect of that whatsoever. “I thought lawyers only asked questions they already knew the answers to.” He looks over at Itachi and immediately regrets doing so, because he's sitting cross-legged on the corner of the bed, braiding his hair over one shoulder for the night and looking probably more at home than he has any right to. Shisui credits this wholly to his complete lack of comprehension of personal space and boundaries, because _jesus_ , he's either fifteen feet away at all times or _right there_. “Or is it a free for all now?”

“I was trying to be polite.” Itachi looks up briefly before returning his attention to his braiding, and honestly, is that really necessary, right at this moment? Shisui could think of several other worthwhile hobbies he could be taking up, like crochet, or crossword puzzles, or a Rubiks cube, or maybe letting Shisui braid his hair _for_ him, and then Shisui takes a mental step back from the situation and wonders when he turned into such a fucking bleeding heart over all of this. “And, just so you know, it's at least once a night, and more when you drink.” Itachi raises both eyebrows slightly and wraps a hair tie around the end of his braid. “Which is often. Very often.”

“Can I get some numbers on that too?” Shisui snaps, and immediately wants to maybe become one of those mute monks, because he's fairly certain this is Itachi trying to be considerate and maybe even _cares_ a little, and he just. Just keeps being a jerk. The biggest jerk of all time, the literal worst.

Itachi says nothing, and contents himself with blinking several times and curling his lip. The silence pervades for the better part of half a minute.

“I'm sorry,” Shisui finally says. “I am. I was—you were just trying to be nice.”

Itachi coughs, pulling up the neck of his sweatshirt to cover his mouth; Shisui should probably find that gross, because it's his sweatshirt, but honestly, he's just more distracted by the fact that it's _his sweatshirt_. “Anywhere from two to four standard drinks per day,” he says, finally. “Not every day, but often enough.”

Sighing, Shisui reluctantly peels himself out of bed to get a new shirt; there's one on top of an overstuffed bookshelf that is still _kind of_ folded, and thus likely mostly clean. “Did you ever use those cough drops? _Those_ weren't expired,” he says casually.

“I also threw out the cigarettes that were in your bathroom,” Itachi says, in lieu of an answer. “They were damp. And unhealthy.”

Shisui can feel Itachi's eyes on him, and suddenly it's as if he's under a microscope. “You're avoiding my question,” he says, and peels his shirt over his head. He tosses it onto the floor vaguely near his laundry bag which is, well, close enough, and unceremoniously wrangles the clean one on. “That's a little childish, don't you think?”

It's a little too late, though, because he's already seen Itachi's eyes narrow at the tattoo, or potentially because he finds Shisui repulsive. Either is equally likely at this point, Shisui thinks gloomily, and immediately reprimands himself for being a fucking baby about it. He ignores the tense silence, because clearly he has somehow fucked up irreparably and is most likely best off just shutting his mouth and trying to go back to sleep.

It's when he's settled back in, curled up to face the door, that the sound of a pen scribbling relentlessly on paper cease, and Itachi finally decides to speak again. “That's for the family, right?”

“Well, I didn't get it because I liked how it looked.” Shisui flops onto his back and throws an arm over his face, because _god_ that lamp is bright and why won't he just go to _sleep_ and also now he can't stare creepily at Itachi for _any_ length of time whatsoever, which is honestly the biggest benefit out of all of them.

“You've killed people.” There's hesitance in his voice, as if this is something he isn't entirely sure he wants to know. “The Mangekyo.”

Shisui looks over for a moment, watches Itachi flip another page and peer at his notes. “Yeah.” He briefly considers a career as a professional illusionist, so he could disappear into the floor and make it believable instead of just wishful thinking. “I did.”

Itachi says nothing for what seems like an eternal span of minutes.

Shisui forces himself to close his eyes again, listens to the quiet sounds, someone moving around and trying to get comfortable.

Itachi must reach up to turn off the lamp eventually, because all the light washes out of the room. He clears his throat again and the mattress shifts, and he curls up on the other side, facing Shisui. “Who were they?”

Shisui makes it his life's goal not to move a fucking muscle and to keep staring at the ceiling. He could draw the ceiling from memory at this point, he thinks. Make an abstract sculpture of the metaphor represented by the ceiling, sell it for a fortune, and flee the country. “One.” He swallows, and it feels as if there's something rocky making its way up his trachea, like he's about to start spitting up stones. “Just one.” This is also a lie; there are seconds of extreme clarity, of blood and a fast heartbeat and frenzied running and fear, but that isn't something he wants to revisit, ever. “There were more than one, but after the first one it didn't matter as much any more.”

There is another long silence, and it's so quiet that Shisui can hear the bathroom faucet dripping in the next room.

“I'm sorry,” Itachi says, and Shisui almost startles at his voice. “For asking.” He's still watching Shisui carefully, as if looking for something that will tip him off as to what to do next.

Shisui hopes to god that Itachi will be kind enough to not call him out on his wavering voice. “It's fine.” He clears his throat and tugs the comforter a little further up, although it's nowhere near long enough to smother himself with, which would have been the ideal option. “Don't worry.” And he means it, because it's over. It's over and done with, and he's going to get out sooner rather than later, hopefully, and hopefully not dream about those people for the rest of his life.

Itachi's mouth twitches downwards, and Shisui (for maybe the tenth time in as many minutes) reminds himself why proposing is a) a terrible idea, and b) highly unrealistic, and c) potentially not even legal in New York state anyway. It's just really really difficult when that stupid braid curls down to land around his collarbone because that terrible sweatshirt is too big, and stray pieces of hair keep falling forwards and he keeps brushing them back and _god—_

“I am, though,” Itachi says quietly, and there is a hand very hesitantly placed on the inside of his forearm, which is honestly a weird spot, but Shisui really isn't going to complain at this point. “I upset you.”

Shisui laughs a little and figures this is probably another fever dream, and to just enjoy it before spiders start crawling out of anyone's face. “I upset you all the time.”

Itachi sniffs, but his face is a little more relaxed. “You frustrate me.” He closes his eyes, and well. Apparently he's just going to go to sleep. “There's a difference,” he adds, a minute or so later.

“Good to know,” Shisui says, and continues to concentrate on containing the nineteenth century romantic that apparently lives somewhere in the depths of his brain. “Your hands are cold, by the way.” He rolls onto his side and wraps both hands around Itachi's and holds his breath. “Absolutely freezing.”

“Your thermostat is three degrees off,” Itachi replies, without opening his eyes. “It's reading higher than it actually is.” He doesn't snatch his hand back, either, which Shisui generally considers a win.

Shisui grins; there's still almost a foot and a half of space between them, but it feels right, feels almost intimate. “Good to know.” He lays awake for a while, but it turns out people are more pleasant to stare at than ceilings.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we yell into the void, and the void yells back at us. it's very [loud](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/). deafening, even.


	14. detriment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're Getting Real, Folks

The first time Shisui wakes up, it's around one in the morning, and he can hear the house settling, creaking, breathing a little raggedly in the dim nighttime. Rain drums on the roof and acts as an insulator—everything feels a little surreal, encapsulated in sodden radio static. Everything, right now, is very far away, and maybe if he shuts his eyes and goes back to sleep it'll stay like this until he wakes up. Thatt isn't quite the reality of the situation, the only part of his brain with any fucking sense reminds him; he'll still be him when he wakes up, whether he wakes up in a cell or in the street or in the rubble or in this bed or in the one he's made for himself—

Shisui sighs, and pulls his freezing feet back under the blankets, and instead looks to the side and watches Itachi sleep. He looks the same; Shisui had expected him to look younger, although that might just be a consequence of his over-consumption of daytime dramas in Obito's hospital room and general affection for bad television. He pulls the covers up a little more, and thinks that if this _was_ a soap opera—even a shitty one—the lighting would be a hell of a lot better. Something would also have _happened_ by now, and he wouldn't be living day to day, wondering whether or not September nineteeth or October first or the twenty-third or maybe his birthday will be when they finally decide what to do about him, one way or another, because it's like living on an ice floe, perpetually freezing and occasionally trying to avoid drowning and large predatory mammals.

It's frustrating, is what it is, Shisui thinks, and reaches up to rub his eyes. He hates to think that the bright flashes of color blooming behind his eyelids are maybe a couple more ganglions dying off, because at this point he's a little concerned about having enough brain cells to spare.

Itachi twitches in his sleep, hands curling into the no-man's-land between them, and Shisui nearly jumps out of his skin right then and there. He never moves when he sleeps, at least not to Shisui's knowledge—which is, admittedly, limited in any and all things, as he is now reminded daily—and it's a little reassuring, once he gets past the initial kneejerk 'someone's trying to kill me' response, and, like, nearly punching the wall out of instinct. It's endearing, even, he thinks, and immediately wants to maybe accidentally hit his head again to forget thinking that.

Everything, though, is ruled by instinct, and when he reaches out to wrap his hands around Itachi's again, it doesn't feel like a conscious motion. It just _is,_ and he figures enough in life is hard enough without overthinking a tiny gesture. A tiny _platonic_ gesture, he reminds himself sternly. A tiny platonic gesture with absolutely no meaning behind it. He continues to repeat this to himself very successfully, but he's always been good at pledging allegiance. No, Shisui realizes, a little wry; it's always been his eyes that are the traitors, because his mouth is loyal. His mouth shapes the words that need to be said without hesitation, but he watches and he wants (and he wants, god, every day, _every_ day he _wants_ ) and he falls back asleep with his fingers brushing where the pulse noses up through the skin of Itachi's wrist and tells himself it's fine, _it's fine—_

The second time Shisui wakes up, there's yellow light seeping through the uneven crack between the door and its frame, and this time there's no intermediary period of intangible concepts and mental gymnastics. He's just _awake_ , with the harsh sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, his own breathing, a heartbeat, the all-too-familiar sensation sinking into his gut that says 'you made a mistake', and then pauses, and then says 'you fucked up this time'.

The other side of the bed is empty, and must have been for some time now: when Shisui slides his hand tentatively across the sheets it's all cold, all of it. He frowns, and then snatches his hand back, because not-so-subtly checking to see how long the object of your indirect affections comes across as a little _too_ weird in his book, and Shisui can only _mostly_ handle weird. Mostly.

He doesn't really think all that much about getting up, about kicking the covers to the side and moving out into the tiny hallway—or, really, right into the living room and almost into the back of that fucking chair, if he's being realistic about his square footage.

Shisui yawns, and squints at the significantly brighter light. He snuffles around the chair and stands in the middle of the three by three area rug and glares; it's likely made a little ineffective by the fact that he can barely fucking see, because clearly Itachi is out to make everyone else as blind as he is, but still. He tries. “What are you doing?”

Itachi lifts one shoulder in a kind of noncommittal gesture, and doesn't look up from the book balanced on his lap. “I couldn't sleep.” He turns a page, and then another, and Shisui doesn't look at the line that the arch of his neck paints, and definitely doesn't acknowledge that the habit of taking Shisui's clothes doesn't look like it'll end any time soon. “You should know what that's like.” His voice sounds rougher than usual.

Shisui stands there with his mouth open for all of three seconds before speaking. “You're getting sick,” he says, and figures it's best to keep most of the accusatory tone out of his voice, even though it's just begging to be allowed in. The knowledge that he's being a petulant child is definitely lurking in the back of his mind, and he valiantly ignores it.

At this, Itachi _does_ look up at him, and god, he looks so very very tired. “And?” He traces a finger down the page and makes a face. “No one's ever died of a cold.” He flips to the index in the back of his book with a loud _thunk_. It serves to emphasize much more accurately than any diacritical mark ever could.

Shisui tries not to flinch. “It's three in the morning.” The words are awfully heavy in the silence. “I'm just saying, maybe you'd make more progress if you slept somewhat normally.” He can see the tension in Itachi's jaw from across the room, and sucks in a breath. His fingers curl and uncurl and curl again, as if his brain hasn't quite gotten the message across to his hands that he isn't meant to touch. “Look, I can't make you, but maybe consider it.”

He absolutely does not watch intently as Itachi tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “Duly noted.” He does not look up this time.

“Okay. Okay.” Shisui stands there expectantly for all of a minute. “So you're staying up.”

“I'll go to sleep soon.”

Shisui fights back the urge to scream in frustration, because this is supposed to be his _thing_. He is supposed to be a people person, and forcing himself to acknowledge that he is completely clueless when it comes to this one particular person is absolutely infuriating. He figures it's poetic justice, but still. That doesn't make whatever god exists any less of an _absolute dick_. “All right.” Shisui reminds himself that stomping out of a room is extremely childish behavior. “Sounds good. Let me know if you hear any homicidal maniacs.” He regrets it a little after he says it, considers the numerous times he's been told to be less flip, a little more circumspect, considers that maybe it isn't that funny if it's close to reality.

His room is oddly empty without another person breathing in it. Before he falls back into sleep, Shisui wonders when, exactly, he got used to it.

The third time Shisui wakes up, the clock reads 4:10 in unrelenting red, and his bed is empty again but this time it's warm, as if someone has only recently left again. Even half-asleep, he stifles a humorless laugh, because even in his ever-churning train of thought it's always 'someone', always 'this person', when he needs to stop beating around the fucking bush and get used to the idea that he cares, which. Which he isn't saying he does, but he's also definitely saying there are certain people he would kill for, voluntarily.

They think that dying for someone and killing for them are the same thing, when they absolutely aren't. Shisui knows this the same way he knows his own name, because honestly it hadn't sounded _awful_ at first, but he had been a kid and hadn't had many options and _god_ he hadn't realized until Kagami had died, everything that he _didn't_ see, everything that had been kept carefully hidden, secreted away, but—

He forces himself to breathe in, carefully. It feels like he's been running a race, or hiking through thick dark sucking mud.

Shisui rolls onto his side and faces the empty space, and pretends not to hear the water splashing too-loud into the basin; the tile in the bathroom amplifies it, and it sounds like rain, like a waterfall, like blood rushing in his ears and white noise. There's a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, not dissimilar to the feeling he gets when Anko has a tattoo gun millimeters from his skin. He's expecting it, knows it's coming, can _see_ it coming. It's never really made it hurt any less.

Shisui is very good at falsification. He has no problem pretending to be the dumb kid, or acting as if his life is together, or giving the illusion of some sort of general direction. Some things are harder than others: acting like he can't hear anything over the sound of the running water, for example. He is absolutely _excellent_ at pretending to be asleep, and wishing that certain parts of real life were the nightmares.

Itachi's footfalls on the carpet are muted, but still cause the floorboards to creak in a dissonant sort of way; the noises meld with the creaking of the house and the wind and the perpetual patter of the rain, and it's almost enough for him to forget what he heard. Almost.

The light in the living room clicks off, and Shisui listens as Itachi shuts the door and pads carefully around to the far side of the bed. He is cautious, circumspect, as if trying not to startle a wounded animal. If it weren't for the circumstances, Shisui would be flattered.

The mattress creaks a little as Itachi shifts his weight, crawling back under the covers, and Shisui lets his jaw relax a little, lets the tension drain from his face; he's very, _very_ good at pretending. He continues to feign sleep, and watches through his lashes as Itachi turns back and forth, trying to make himself comfortable; he tries to ignore the ragged breathing, the unsettled nature of it all. He's seem Itachi sans composure maybe _once,_ total, and he hates that the thing gnawing in his chest is something like abstract fear—it isn't fear of anything tangible, but that of a quiet inevitability, slow and crawling and inexorable. It is always, always hungry.

This time it is Shisui who reaches out, tentatively brushes a hand over Itachi's forearm, in a gesture meant to mirror his own from what seems like years ago now. “Hey.” He forces the slurs of sleep into his voice, and it comes easily. Sometimes he thinks he has too much practice lying. “You all right?”

Itachi clears his throat once, twice. “Fine.” It's a very quiet word, almost drowned out by the rain. Shisui is grateful that he can read lips. There's a stretching silence, the quiet of wide eyes in the dark, and then. “You were right.”

Shisui murmurs in acknowledgment. “Getting sick?” He shifts, pillowing his head on one arm, movements deliberately slow. People who _haven't_ been awake for the past quarter of an hour don't move very quickly, he reminds himself, and tamps down the part that has suspected, that has _known—_

“Yeah.” Itachi exhales sharply, through his nose. There's something unreadable in his face, and Shisui wants to freeze the moment in time, look for hours, maybe try to get it out of him, throw knuckle bones and shell casings onto a torn dish towel and try to divine what's wrong—where is it you hurt, what can I do, what do you _need_ from me—

“Want water?” Shisui asks, and then yawns.

Itachi is still sitting up, leaning back against the wall; when he looks down at his hands it's with a sort of acceptance. “I'm fine,” he says, after a long moment of working the words around in his throat. “Thank you.”

Shisui curls his fingers into the pillowcase to anchor them, because it's around the time of night when he has the most trouble reminding himself why this is a terrible idea. Anything seems possible when the world is just you and a stupid dream at four in the morning, he tells himself firmly. “Lay down, at least, especially if you're still going to the precinct tomorrow.” Even from feet away, Shisui can see the immediate curl to Itachi's lip. “Don't give me that,” he adds warningly. “It's a valid question.”

“I'll be fine by tomorrow morning.” Itachi flexes the fingers of one hand, then the other; he cracks first the thumb, then the knuckle of each finger; the whole time, he stares off a little, eyes moving along the perimeter of the room. This is Itachi thinking, considering, weighing options. This too hurts to watch.

Shisui makes a face. He wonders whether it was the city water or the potential inbreeding or maybe a genetic propensity towards high intellect but abnormally low common sense. In the back of his mind, he wonders if it's possible to get secondhand arthritis. “Do you have to?” He lifts his other hand half-heartedly, makes an aborted gesture. “You know, have to do that?” Shisui swallows. His throat is suddenly rather dry. “Bad for you.”

Itachi drops his own hand just as quickly. “Sorry.”

Watching him hurts. Shisui sees more the longer he looks, but the trick is that he can't be looking hard. When he looks _for_ things that are wrong, he misses entire concepts, epigraphs written in poise and posture, or lack thereof. “No, no 'sorry',” Shisui mumbles. “Just go to sleep.”

With a disapproving noise, Itachi turns to look at the wall instead, and the silence between them builds to a crescendo.

It's almost enlightening, Shisui thinks, as he watches the slow, slow rise and fall of Itachi's chest in the scant light from outside. Syrupy, quiet, breathing like tattered curtains—it's a fraying effort by overworked lungs and god, really, that would explain a lot, wouldn't it, the secrecy and the lack of appetite and the roughness—

Shisui pushes himself up a little. “Take it,” he says, and god, he's so tired, so fed up with his self-perpetuating list of 'shit that has gone wrong but shouldn't have', and whether it was god or genetics there's a rather immature part of him banging on bars and yelling about unfairness. He shoves his pillow across the no-man's-land, and tries not to overthink the implications of this. “Under your back. It'll help.” He runs a hand through his hair and tries not to pull too hard, wishes that thoughts were attached at the follicle and could be yanked right out.

Itachi is silent, a collection of nervous reflexes and the mathematical breakdown of a martyr complex Shisui has half solved, half guessed at. It's worth mentioning he really hates math, too. “What for?” he finally forces out, and it's impossible to discern whether it's suspicion or dread or disbelief in his tone.

“Under your back,” Shisui repeats, and turns over to go back to sleep. It's infuriating, he decides, as he rests his head on one outstretched arm, because he likely _knew_ it would help, he's trying to stand on ceremony, too proud to ask for a fucking pillow, too much of an _Uchiha_ to realize that you can't outdo pathology— “I don't know all that much, but elevation might help your breathing.”

Shisui stews for a while, staring at the back of his eyelids; for once, it's not tempting to look at Itachi, because he doesn't think he can without breaking something. When he does open them, it's to turn and look at the alarm clock and realize that it's almost four thirty in the morning. Four thirty one, really.

“Thank you,” Itachi says, eventually. He still sounds short of breath. Shisui has had nightmares about drowning in a river or a lake or in the stillness of the very bottom of the ocean, the deep dark water just inches above the silt, but never one of drowning on dry land, in a bed or a chair or a courtroom. “It—”

“Helps, yeah,” Shisui cuts in, because maybe if he talks more Itachi will talk less, much less, not at all, even, if that will help. He rifles through what little he knows of sign language in his head, considers a clinic and the emergency room and ten other options on autopilot before he reminds himself that if help were necessary or possible or both, it would have been gotten already. “Don't talk, okay?” He hates how soft he sounds, but it fits with the quiet noises the sheets make when he moves and the pipes clanging in the walls and the feeling he gets when he watches Itachi's fingers smooth over the seam in the cuff of his shirt over and over and over.

Itachi huffs a little, although it's more a nod than any other kind of expenditure of energy or oxygen. “You're full of it.” He's halfway to smiling, maybe the closest he'll ever get outside of seeing his brother.

Shisui grins a little, half his face still smushed into his own arm. “Yeah, I am,” he says quietly. “Someone has to be, right?” He wonders, for maybe the tenth time in a sixty second span, what's okay and what isn't, and considers the difference between desire and detriment. He taps one finger on the empty space in the sheets, and with one ear pressed to the fabric he can hear the hollow _thunk thunk thunk_ of it bouncing off the pillow top, the rasp of calluses over thread.

Itachi clears his throat, and it hurts because it sounds like every other time he's done it over the last three months except now he _knows_ , and now it hurts something awful. “I'm sorry.” He's avoiding Shisui's gaze studiously, and Shisui can only assume that his miniature bookshelf—the haphazard disaster zone it is—has suddenly become extremely interesting.

“Don't apologize.” Shisui wonders what is neutral ground, considers what is acceptable territory. He's taken touch too lightly, he thinks, never given it much more thought than yawning or breathing or simply gravitating towards other warm bodies. It's never been something to put thought into before, but Itachi—Itachi changes things. “Just try to sleep.”

“Not in your job description.”

In the half-light, Shisui can see him tense, see him bite his tongue. It feels a little like teeth in his own lip, and for a short but stark span of seconds he strongly dislikes himself for continuing to want. “So?” He jerks a shoulder with forced nonchalance. “I don't mind.”

Itachi blinks, and his gaze flicks over to Shisui for all of a moment before darting away again. It's like trying to hold on to an image frozen half-developed in a darkroom, ruined by premature light—a half-embodied epigraph, a cryptic set of changing tenses, past to future to present and back to past again, a history and premonition rolled into one. “Maybe you should.”

Shisui can't really help it; he laughs a little. On impulse (impulse, he thinks, and laughs at himself because that's the biggest joke since free will, and every single thing he does nowadays is the definition of premeditation), he reaches over, rests a hand on Itachi's forearm. It is a terribly uncomfortable mirror of only hours earlier, but Shisui figures it's as good a means of translation as any. “Go to sleep.” I care for you; I care for you a great deal.

The expression on Itachi's face is unsettling; it borders afraid, adjourns fearful, while resolutely remaining neither. “I'm sorry,” he repeats, and Shisui decides that it's a paralytic, an apology dragged out across an hour, a day, a week.  
Shisui goes out on a limb, inches his thumb down to rest over Itachi's pulse. It's rather irregular, but it's definitely _there,_ and the air hiding fearfully in his lungs rushes out. “Stop,” he says, very quietly. “Talk tomorrow.” He's not about to broker an argument over this, not now; there's plenty of time, he tells himself. Plenty of time.

The fourth time Shisui wakes up, it's ten minutes to six and his alarm is going off with all the grace and subtlety of a rabid waterfowl and he absolutely would _not_ mind passing into the great beyond, just for the guarantee of eight hours' sleep. He groans, reaching over and hitting it a couple times, until the godawful beeping stops and he's left in peace for another fifteen minutes.

He sighs, rolls back over, and nearly has a heart attack.

Itachi is still asleep, cocooned in enough layers of blankets to make any sort of physical features indiscernible; as it is, Shisui can barely see the top half of his face peeking out from behind the comforter. His breathing is slowed, but even for the most part—however, the fact that it's almost _six_ and Itachi isn't awake at _all_ is a little worrying.

“Hey,” Shisui says, very softly. “Hey.” He pats the mound of blankets awkwardly, approximately where he imagines Itachi's shoulder might be. He doesn't wake, but he does shift a little, and Shisui can't tell if he's moving into or away from his touch. He can't think about that possibility right now, though, because he would love nothing more than to stay right here and act as a personal space heater.

Shisui prods his arm one more time, and notes that he's warmed up since earlier this morning; he tamps down the wash of relief that floods through him, tells himself that concern over someone he's meant to protect is completely normal. Maybe his domestic fantasies are a bit heavy-handed, but come on, he reasons with himself; give a guy a break. He tries very hard to ignore the contentment that is couched towards the back of his mind, the gut reaction that this is something desired, a long-awaited outcome. Clearly, his subconscious has not gotten any of the last month's inter-office memos, and decided to eschew the meeting on what he's deemed 'appropriate behavior'.

It's only when Shisui rises that Itachi shows any inclinations towards wholly waking. It's a relief—for the past several weeks (six, eight, however long it's been—who's counting, anyway; does it matter when you'd gladly do it for many many more, anyway?) Itachi has always woken first.

“Hey.” Shisui leans over, taps him on the shoulder with his glasses. “Awake now?”

Itachi sits up, slowly; there's a crease across his throat, where the folds of the sheets or his own arm or maybe the pillow pressed fingers across and said 'mine'. “What time is it?”

Bedhead, Shisui thinks, has never looked as good as it does now. “Almost six.” He clears his throat and hopes he doesn't appear suspicious, hopes that the way his gaze drifts is considered absent and not—not anything else.

“All right,” Itachi says, and shoves his glasses onto his face with a rather uncharacteristic lack of ceremony.

Shisui bends down to tie one shoe, and then the other; he wonders how, exactly, you bring up the concept of well-being beyond minimal functional level without seeming _really_ fucking rude. “So,” he drawls, and grabs a long-sleeved shirt off the end of his bed. “How'd you sleep?”

“Fine.” Itachi's tone is rather stiff, as if he's speaking around something lodged in his throat. “As well as expected.”

Sometimes, Shisui wishes he could graph his level of interaction with/proximity to other Uchiha against his overall level of frustration and desire to maybe enact some kind of defenestration. “Okay,” he says, and even to his own ears, he just sounds tired. “Okay.” He sighs, shoves his hands into his pockets; he does not look at Itachi at all, and he figures if he just doesn't look, he can't notice the messy hair or the exact manner in which he rubs one eye, or the expression he makes when he first puts glasses on (a tightening around the eyes, not that he would know), or maybe the clench in his gut that seems to manifest whenever his brain fails to comprehend the concept of someone else in his bed.

Shisui gets up, and wonders if he's old enough to have failing joints, because it sure feels like it.

He makes to leave. “I put coffee on,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Let me know when you're ready to go.” He does not bring up last night, or the coughing, or Itachi's apparent aversion to constructive communication in general.

The bathroom is significantly colder than the rest of the apartment: it always is, and likely always will be. Shisui figures that when whatever powers that be come for him, he can go pass out in the bathtub and they'll assume he's already in the ninth circle of hell.

He leans against the granulated plastic of the counter top and looks down into the sink, and then at the mirror, and then back down into the sink. There's one or two long black hairs curled against the white porcelain, and he sighs. Just last week he'd pulled a clump of hair the size of a rather small mouse off the wall, and he isn't entirely eager to repeat the experience.

The face looking back at him is tired, but not like yesterday—not quite like the train station. Not so haggard, not so old. Shisui watches his own lips tighten into a thin line, and realizes he _does_ look an awful lot like his father. He washes his face and walks back out into the kitchen, watches Itachi stand in front of the kitchen sink holding a coffee cup, watches him look out the window. It feels like a pulled muscle, like running a marathon after years of inactivity. A good kind of hurt.

Shisui clears his throat, and tries a little more actively not to linger in the doorway like some sort of skulking felon—which, in retrospect, is entirely true. “Ready?”

If Itachi hears any kind of unsurety in his voice, he's tactful enough to ignore it. “Yes,” he says, and doesn't move in the slightest.

“Look.” Shisui speaks more hesitantly than usual; somehow, crossing the length of the linoleum has become something insurmountable, impossible, never mind that he has days' worth of memories of pacing the same sixteen square feet. He slides in next to the coffee maker, in Itachi's peripheral—he figures it's best to be seen. “You can talk to me.”

Itachi is absolutely silent, and resolutely sips what is almost certainly too-hot coffee. Shisui considers the scientific probability of someone evolving a gene for asbestos mouth, capable of withstanding volcanic temperatures.

“If you want,” Shisui adds, after several more uncomfortably empty seconds. He adds this to the list he's been turning over in his mind, the outline of what it might be that Danzo has over him.

Itachi's jaw tenses a couple times, as if he feels the need to chew the words a little before he speaks. “I understand.”

Shisui holds up a hand. “No pressure,” he says, slowly. “Like. I mean it as your—as your friend, okay? I don't have too many people to tell.” Vaguely, Shisui wonders how, exactly, friendships work nowadays, and wonders if continually indulging in a domestic fantasy with your current romantic interest is still considered socially acceptable and/or a faux pas.

“No—no, I know,” Itachi says, and it seems to take a great deal of effort. “Thank you.” It's very small, and very quiet, but it's the first honest to god smile Shisui's seen in what seems like months.

“Okay, I just—I'm glad you know.” Shisui crosses his arms over his chest and peers out the window and ignores Itachi looking at him rather curiously, and the silence stretching out over minutes. A minute doesn't seem like a long time, he thinks, until you're right there, right in the moment, regretting everything you have done and everything you never got a chance to do.

Shisui sighs, and tilts his head a little. The wall of the neighboring house is an interesting shade of scarlet brown. He wonders when his daydreams migrated from purely inappropriate to simply _weird_ , because who daydreams about a simple, uneventful series of day to day events with someone else, instead of, like, a reenactment of the kama sutra? _He_ does, apparently, and then realizes that Anko will probably call him a little bitch and tell him to get on with doing something about it already when he next sees her. It's enough to want to make him heave another, deeper sigh.

“The brick wall is a sight this time of day,” Itachi remarks, in a rather even tone. “The sunlight hitting the texture of the cement.” He takes another sip of coffee and presses his lips together, and Shisui realizes this is a joke. This is Itachi's version of a joke, or possibly a conversation starter.

“Yeah, for sure,” Shisui replies, and he isn't looking out the window any more, not at all. “It sure is something to look at.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shameless self promotion space: 
> 
> you can find me [here](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/). the _other_ thing i was working on instead of this is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536118/chapters/41318645), and it's done, _finally_.


	15. displacement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there. there's a pretty dramatic tone shift, because I wrote half of this maybe four months ago and then the rest of it a couple weeks ago. not much, but I'm getting back into it.  
> also, I didn't edit this because I am The Worst.

The concrete and steel facade of the precinct looms over the smaller storefronts, visible from even down the block. Even from this distance, Shisui feels like he's getting hives. “Call me if anything happens, okay?”   
Itachi exhales a little too sharply to be accidental, and suddenly Shisui goes right back to thinking about last night (this morning?) and begins to realize why he's paid this much attention to his breathing in the first place. “I don't need a babysitter.” His tone is sharp, but there's still a telltale weakness in the timbre of his voice that's somewhat nerve-wracking, to say the least. “I'll be fine.”  
Shisui's mouth tightens, and he has the sudden desire to do a complete family genealogy to figure out exactly who the 'persistent to the point of idiocy' trait came from. “I'm sure you will be.” It's meant to come across as soothing, although he may have missed his mark somewhat. “I'll see you later on, all right?”   
“I should be done by six-thirty, maybe seven.” Itachi pulls his jacket more tightly around his body and looks at the sidewalk with what is most definitely some form of malicious intent. “You can meet me at the station.”  
Shisui hands him the thick accordion file of trial notes. “By the station you mean, like—” He jerks his head in the general direction of the precinct and its attached complex. “Like right here, right?” He gathers up an innocent sort of smile.   
“I mean at home.” Itachi's eyes are narrowed, and he does not look overly fond of the idea. “I can take a train by myself.”   
Shisui heaves a sigh, raises an eyebrow at him.   
Itachi stands there, silent, for too long a moment. “It'll be crowded then,” he says, finally. “Lots of people. I'll be fine.”   
“Do me a favor.” There's too much going on all at once, people passing on either side, and Shisui is wholly aware that they are being those assholes, the ones standing not far enough to the side of a city sidewalk. He's felt the uncomfortable urge to move to the side while alternately apologizing and telling people to fuck off, but some things, he tells himself, are more important. “Just—just let me meet you here, okay?” He has no intentions whatsoever of informing his cousin that he'll do just that regardless of answer.   
“Pointless,” Itachi mutters, and hefts his bag a little higher on his shoulder. “Why are you so persistent?” He does meet Shisui's eyes at this, and there's just a tiny bit of whatever soft insides he saw the night before in his expression. It's jarring—Shisui is so used to analyzing microexpression after facial tic after tiny piece of body language to cobble together something like emotional expression that seeing anything at all throws him for a bit of a loop.   
Shisui grins. “I'll see you at six-thirty, okay?”   
“Seven.” Itachi pushes his glasses back up his nose.   
God, Shisui thinks, he should not want the things he wants. He's a little afraid that if he goes within a ten-block radius of Saint Patrick's cathedral he's going to incinerate on the spot. “Six thirty.” He brushes a piece of lint off the shoulder of Itachi's coat, and grins. “Is this what you meant when I said I was frustrating?” If he lets his touch linger a little longer than absolutely necessary, who's to know?   
Itachi blinks with exaggerated slowness, but says nothing about the touch, the hand on his shoulder, the night before, all the nights before, the oddness of every interaction, the thing they're both avoiding now— “You're going to make me late.”   
Shisui thinks, for one beautiful span of five seconds, of every potential way he could 'make them late', and then a couple extraneous ones to boot. Oddly enough, not all of them are horizontally motivated—some just involve getting breakfast, or going to the laundromat, or taking a shortcut through Prospect Park, and oh god who is he becoming— “I'll get going.” The words tumble over each other on the way out, and Jesus, he hasn't been this stupid in years.   
“I'll see you, then.” It's a marvel, in fact, that Itachi does not look outright displeased—quite the contrary, in fact. “Six thirty.”   
Shisui watches him make his way down the block, waits until he climbs—rather slowly, in his honest opinion—the concrete steps and disappears into the building. He tells himself surveillance is necessary, and that this has absolutely nothing to do with the apparent stranglehold Itachi has on his attention at the moment. He's fine. It's fine. He isn't reading into anything too much. It's all fine.   
He lets several minutes pass as he scans the street, the sea of faces and umbrellas and briefcases, people people people. When he shrinks back against the brick of a storefront advertising tobacco coffee news it's as if he ceases to exist, looks like one of any other tens of dozens of individuals who do the exact same thing on a daily basis.   
Shisui swallows, looks down, then at the billboard across the street, down again, and then at the clock in the front window of the store across the street. It's only been five minutes, and here he is, waiting for god knows what. He looks back down at the wet sidewalk and thinks rather longingly about bagels, more coffee, a lasting and a fulfilling relationship—  
“I could absolutely have pushed you out into traffic by now.”   
There's a pair of small boots directly in his field of view now, and Shisui debates allowing some sort of vehicular homicide, because why the fuck not? He looks up, and grins. “Don't tempt me like that.”   
Izumi's definitely fighting back a smile, although she'd likely never give him the satisfaction. “Did we start reading Kafka in the last month or two?” She taps him on the leg with a furled black umbrella. “Out of the rest of them, I never figured you for the one to be brooding on a street corner.”   
Shisui sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I missed the brutal honesty.”   
“I'll bet.” Izumi shifts her weight from foot to foot, just slightly. “How's it been?” She seems uncomfortable, however easily the words come; for god's sake, the only reason he can pry the underlying emotion from her easy tone is because he's known her for years, watched her argue the family, watched her fight to be allowed to leave and make some quiet, separate life for herself, to carve out a space with growing room.   
“The same.” Shisui shrugs. When they try to look one another in the eye, it's as if they are same-poled magnets, skittering away at the slightest provocation. It's guilt, maybe a little shame, just a bit of regret. He wonders if she ever wants to renege on what she's done, or if it was worth it; unfortunately, there's no polite way to ask. “Fugaku says hi.”   
She snorts. “Fugaku would ask you to shove _me_ into traffic.”   
Shisui isn't quite sure what to say to that, because it's most likely true. “Probably.” He drags the toe of one shoe over the sidewalk. “How've you been?”  
“Decent.” Her smile is unsure, aborted; she looks up the street and back again, very quickly. In profile, the family resemblance is especially striking. “My life is uneventful now.” The once-over she gives him, as if checking to make sure he retains full and complete usage of all his limbs, implies a less than reassuring trust in his capabilities.  
Shisui sighs. “I'd kill for uneventful.” The worst part, quite possibly, is that this isn't just a turn of phrase—it's true in its entirety, and there's a sect of his mind that cringes away from admitting it. Another part—slightly more unruly than the first—wants to point out that he's likely killed for a lot less, but that doesn't seem like quite the conversation to have in public, less than a mile from police headquarters.   
“Still doing that, then?” Izumi wrinkles her nose a little, hitches her messenger bag a little higher on her shoulder. “I was kind of hoping you'd gotten out too.” She looks down and adjusts the button on her coat sleeve with neat, fastidious movements. It's instantly recognizable as one of her nervous habits, a tell—he's just sorry it's in response to him this time, because things look very different from where you stand against a wall in a low-lit room, watching the latest orphan of the cause argue for something other than what the family wants, than what is accepted to be the path of least resistance, of most understanding—  
“Maybe.” Shisui shrugs again. It's fitting, this perpetual state of not-knowing, of existing in a Schrodinger-inspired plane where there are five potential outcomes at any given time, and the only variegation in result is the degree of how disastrous his choices turn out to be.  “There hasn't really been a good time.”   
There's a siren wailing somewhere in midtown; from where they stand it sounds like some bog spirit cursed into a well. The uncertain drizzle gains momentum, and leaves little notes in Morse on the concrete.   
“There's never going to be a good time.” Izumi's tone is uncharacteristically harsh. When she squares her shoulders, there's a set to her jaw that is decidedly Uchiha—and no matter how many times she renounces the name, it will follow her, just like the unsavory connotations and rejected job applications and double takes in areas of the city where they are well known.  
“I know that.”   
“Don't get defensive about it.” There's an assuredness in the way she tilts her head back, raises her chin just a little—it's just enough to be noticed, just enough to say 'I made something of myself'. “I'm just telling you what you already know.”   
“Yeah, I know.” Shisui thumbs over the contents of his pockets—keys, a lighter; pocket knife, drugstore receipt with names scribbled on the back, haphazard—  “I know.” It's uncomfortable, sometimes, seeing her—seeing someone who got out, someone who has pieced together a life outside of the family. “I can't afford to,” he says, and it's as if he's listening to someone else talk. “I mean. I can't.” He clears his throat and looks rather decidedly at the ground, and hopes that she isn't as perceptive as he remembers. “Not financially, like. I can't.”   
And it isn't a lie—Shisui can't imagine just leaving at this point. When he considers it, even casually, there's a instinctive sense of loss that he wants to berate himself for, wants to locate and flagellate out. He can logically understand infatuation and whatever weird, middle-school attraction he's harboring for yet another completely impossible candidate, but allowing it to dictate his actions? That's definitely a first.   
Izumi tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear; Shisui valiantly ignores how familiar the gesture is to him. “All right.” She sighs, looks down, looks up, looks down again as she lets her eyes skitter from face to hands, as if searching out blood stains under ultraviolet. “All right.” She is remarkably unremarkable, standing there—anonymous in a city meant for hiding in, with a bag swung over one shoulder and a scarf and a black coat and ten dozen other tiny things that are meant to depersonalize, and likely calculated to do so, because she is an Uchiha, after all—  
The awkwardness of the situation mounts steadily, if only because no one knows what to say, or what to do, or what is acceptable and what is not. It's also worse because Shisui knows she feels the discomfort as easily as he does; at least with Itachi, he's almost completely certain that absolutely none of the awkwardness registers. “Good to see you,” Shisui offers, and immediately wants to commit some form of ritual suicide, because is it ever good to see the extended family members that may or may not kill for a living?   
Izumi narrows her eyes. “I keep in touch with Anko, you know.” There's a tinge of red running rather high on her cheeks. “I know what's going on.”   
Shisui can see her as an eight year old, an eleven year old, a fifteen year old, an adult, all saying the same exact thing—I know what's going on, I know what you're hiding, I know— “Do you?”  
Her mouth tightens into a thin line. “I know enough.”   
Izumi, he thinks, spends far too much time looking at sidewalks. “I'm sure.” Shisui doesn't mean anywhere near the degree of acerbity that colors his words, but since when has that mattered? “You think I wouldn't leave if I could?”  
“I think you're afraid you're afraid you'll never be good at anything else.” Her pulse jumps in her throat, shudders against the checkered white and black of her scarf; Izumi's eyes are steady and dark and seemingly omniscient, and it's altogether frightening. “It's not my place to tell you that, though.”  
The tension running through his body aches, now—there was a point in time where it was enlivening, when it made him sure of his existence and set him straight, reassured him that he was doing the right thing for himself, for his father, for the family. “I'm doing my best.” This, of course, is a lie; his best would be booking a couple of plane tickets to Florida or Nebraska or potentially California, and paying some ungodly sum of money for a brand new name and a squeaky clean social security number, and potentially for someone to do his taxes for him. Apparently there's no federally designated procedure or special deduction for contract killing as part of your local friendly crime conglomerate—so sue him.   
“Look.” Her words carry more frustration than anger; somewhere, Shisui registers that she was also old enough to remember what happened to Kagami. “I can't make you. I don't have the ability to make you. I'm just saying—” Here, she pauses, cuts herself off. She's never been one to stand on ceremony.   
“No, no.” Shisui hears himself talk, as if from a great distance. “I get it. I get it.”  
She looks at him as if she isn't quite sure what to say. “Do you?” The cast of her features—genetic, of course—says duty, but the set of her jaw says something else entirely. “Are you planning to give it up?” She steps forward just slightly, just enough for him to be able to see each and every muscle in her throat flex when she swallows nervously.   
“If there's something that means enough to me.”   
“Something that means enough to you.” The restatement is flat, without any sort of inflection; Izumi stares him down,, and there’s something in the same family as sympathy in the way she shakes her head, in the way she looks away. “I can’t tell you how to live your life, but figure out what that is.” 

Shisui does not allow himself to move, however appealing rush hour traffic might appear at this point in time. “Sometimes I think I have.” 

Izumi laughs, and it’s a small sharp thing, quick and fast—cauterized wound, butterfly knife, waiting outside a hospital what seems like forever ago. It puts him in mind of watching her move through fighting stances, twelve years old and asking how she should adjust for a hand weapon, how should she hold the knife, why are we  _ doing _ this in the first place, Shisui, and he  _ hadn’t had an answer _ — “That’s not it.” She lifts a hand, gestures in the general vicinity of the station; so she’d been watching, Shisui thinks. So she’d seen. “I know what you’re thinking, and god, that is  _ not _ it.” 

“It could be.” And he’s a fucking liar if there ever was one; he’s a fucking liar if he thinks that there’s even a second of doubt about that. It  _ could _ be, and he wants to explain himself, wants to explain the situation, wishes there was some way to say ‘this isn’t what it looks like’ and have it be the truth.

“It can’t be. Not if you want to leave, want to  _ really _ leave.”  Izumi looks down, taps her umbrella on the ground once, twice. It appears to be an idle gesture, at first. “Look how that went for Obito.” 

Shisui grimaces. “So you heard about that.” 

“Don’t kid yourself.  _ Everyone _ heard about that, he lost his shit all over again when she left.” She’s inspecting the sidewalk with a hitherto unforetold level of dedication. “I reached out to Rin, actually. She’s doing well, all things considered.” 

“And let me guess, part of the ‘all things considered’ was—”

“Was him dragging you out of the fucking mess you got yourself into, yeah.” It’s surprisingly acerbic. “Do I hate the guy? Absolutely, but that’s because I don’t like loud people. Should he have just kept his head down and gotten  _ himself _ out?” Izumi pauses, seems to chew the words a little before spitting them out. “As much as I hate to say it, yeah. Yeah. It’s hard enough as it is.” She looks away again. “I don’t blame her in the slightest, honestly. Nothing is worse than watching the people you care about keep doing the same thing over and over.” There’s just the slightest increase in volume at the end of her sentence, and it’s fucking  _ performance art _ , and Shisui vaguely recalls that she captained the debate team as a high school student, that her particular skill set involved picking arguments apart and crushing each component underfoot, one by one. 

It’s terrifying to experience, in all honesty, but that’s neither here nor there. 

He’s more acutely aware of the fact that people are paying attention, that passersby are  _ staring _ . Out of everything to look at in fucking downtown  _ Manhattan _ , apparently this is it. “So you’re telling me to just not  _ care _ , is that it?” 

“At some point,” Izumi starts, and she shakes her head, snaps her mouth shut and starts over. “At some point, you have to be selfish. You have to not  _ give _ a shit until you can  _ afford _ to.” 

“And you, by talking to me, can ‘afford to give a shit’?” Shisui shoves his hands in his pockets, tries not to project the animosity he’s almost certain is pouring off him. “Can you, though?” 

Izumi seems to steel herself, and the hand she places on his arm feels something like a benediction. “I can.” Small hand. She still bites her nails, Shisui notes, from somewhere far away. Must still box, or fight, or  _ something _ , because there’s familiar bruising around her knuckles, and after the shit he’s seen her accomplish in mere  _ seconds _ , the thought of her punching a bag in a gym surrounded by everyday people is almost laughable. “I can, because I can walk away.” There’s the slightest cast to her features, distinct with regret and the uncomfortable clarity that follows nostalgia. “I’m going to, when this conversation is over.” Another pause, another pass. “It’s going to hurt, but it’s what I’m going to do.”

Shisui says nothing, at first, because it’s easier to stare at a spot just over her shoulder, at the overcast sky, at the straggling drops of rain silhouetted against the dreary half-light. It’s easier to say nothing, to be silent, because there it is again. When he looks her in the eye, it hurts a little, hurts like looking in a mirror, hurts like stealing glances at strangers on the subway, preoccupied with normal lives, normal problems. “What made you do it in the first place?” 

Izumi shrugs, glances side to side. They’re close enough from the center of the sidewalk so as to not draw so much attention—from the outside it must look like every other conversation, every other kismet ‘in passing’. “I was never going to have anything outside of what they wanted for me.” It’s a loaded sentence, and there’s a guilt there he hasn’t yet seen. It’s jarring, almost surprising, and her lips twist. It’s an excuse of a laugh, an ugly sort of amusement. “Fuck the education, forget about that. My own place, an apartment where my address isn’t on file in one of Fugaku’s desk drawers, a life where I can decide to grab coffee without someone making a note of it?” She shakes her head. “It’s a joke, what they do.” 

It’s so easy to think about phone calls with no one on the other end, an alleyway that should be empty, a dirty Jersey train station platform at nearly midnight with something staring at him from across the tracks. It is so, so very easy to think about. “I can’t—” The words stick, catch on his tongue and teeth. “I can’t just leave, you know? I have—”  _ A job _ , he wants to say.  _ Something I care about finishing _ . Neither sounds quite that right, though. 

“You have people you care about.” Izumi isn’t stupid—far from it, although sometimes Shisui thinks it would potentially take someone blind and deaf to miss his, uh, issue. Mild infatuation. Hobby. Whatever. “And they’re going to use that.” She grips his arm a little tighter, leans in just a little further. “Danzo. The fucking family. They don’t  _ care _ , okay? They’d kill their best hunting dog if it snapped at them, do you understand me?” 

“I’m well aware,” Shisui says slowly, and it’s a gradual build, adds to the growing sense of unease in his gut. “You said you’d talked to Rin lately.” It’s implied, the question: he’d never found anything out besides  _ she left _ , and there was a good deal of broken plates and a hole or two in the drywall and Shisui had said  _ you’re not getting your security deposit back, then _ , and it had been  _ like I fucking care, like I’m ever leaving _ and the uncomfortable realization that you’ve never seen your own family cry before, and that the situation is probably much worse than you had initially thought. 

“I did my clinicals on the fifth floor. One of the borough hospitals.” Izumi looks down, looks up again. Wets her lips because the words stick. “Ran into her when they called me down to PESS.” Because Izumi never seeks anyone out, she only ever  _ runs into people _ , and sometimes Shisui wonders how much of it is calculated, how much of it is planned, how  _ isolated _ she must be now— “They had normal issues, you know? But the man who’s got your fiance on a leash showing up in the stairwell of your apartment building?” Her tone is almost incredulous, as if she can’t quite believe it herself. “Your  _ job? _ Your job, when the biggest mistake you’d made was to fuck an Uchiha?” 

“It’s not like that.” Shisui is a bald-faced liar. “It’s not--it’s not that kind of thing, I’m just—” 

“Shisui.” Izumi’s look is  _ scathing _ , because you can renounce a family name all you want, but the breeding is always going to show through. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t  _ matter _ what kind of thing it is—”

“Because they’re going to fuck me over regardless, I know.” He stares at her. “You’re starting to sound like Anko.” 

There it is again, the flush. “We keep in touch.” Izumi stares carefully over his shoulder.

Shisui grins at her, and it’s one of the moments of levity he’s been missing desperately. “Keep in touch, huh?” Her hand is warm on his arm, and maybe this is what family is actually  _ supposed _ to be like. “Her mouth is rubbing off on you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you actually  _ swear _ before.” 

Izumi rolls her eyes, and then she’s stepping back, hitching her bag up onto her shoulder, tucking her umbrella under her arm. “I’m per diem at Rin’s until the end of this month,” she says, and she’s stepping back into the flow of people, walking away again. The  _ if you need me _ is implied, a parting gift. “Think about it.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like I said, not too much going on, just some necessary Emotional Growth and such. downbeats have to happen sometimes. introspection is healthy, to a certain degree, right? 
> 
> I'm traveling this week, so I'll be spending plane/airport time outlining for this and my companion pet project (!!!); as a result, I'll be more available than usual, so you can find me on [tumblr](https://ame-trio.tumblr.com/), either on that one or my personal.
> 
> cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> hate it? love it? come scream at me on [tumblr](http://extraordinarily-prettyteeth.tumblr.com/) about it.


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